SNIDER 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


DELPHIC    DAYS 


BY 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER. 


Library. 


ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 

FRIEDRICH     ROESLEIN. 

•22  houth  Fourth  St. 

1880. 


Enteied  according  to  Act  of  Cjngress  by 

DENTON  J.  SNIDER, 
In  the  Offi  ;e  of  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


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Book  First. 


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CYC  LET   FIRST. 
1. 

LONG  has  my  shallop  been  rocked  on  the  beautiful  Bosom  of  waters 

Rising  in  ripples  of  joy  over  the  heart  of  fair  Greece  ; — 
On  the  Corinthian  Bosom,  bared  to  the  touch  of  the  sunbeams 

That  are  wreath  ing  its  swell  softly  in  flashes  of  gold. 
But  the  coquettish  light  sport  of  the  sea  with  its  dimples  of  laughter 

Quickly  behind  me  I  leave, — here  now  I  leap  on  the  shore 
Where  is  the  road  through  vineyards  and  olives  an  I  hills  up  to  Delphi  : 

Held  in  a  hymn  of  the  (rod,  thither  I  pass  to  his  shrine. 
From  the  world's  other  side,  from  the  banks  of  the  turbulent  "River 

Always  rushing  in  rage  down  to  the  realms  of  the  Sun, 
Where  the  vast  flow  of  the  waters  doth  sweep  by  the  fens  of  Cahokia, 

Thence  I  a  pilgrim  have  come  over  the  ocean  and  earth. 
Wild  is  the  turmoil  that  restlessly  whirls  in  the  stream  of  the  Kiver, 

Fierce  are  the  insects  that  swarm  through  the  great  vale  on  its  banks. 
But  now  in  truth  I  have  come  to  the  much-sung  home  of  the  Muses, 

Now  the  thing  I  behold  when  may  be  spoken  the  name. 
Look  !  the  glistening  heights  of  Parnassus  rise  up  in  the  distance, 

Over  the  land  and  the  sea  still  they  are  sending  their  gleams. 
With  that  top  for  my  mark  I  joyously  start  on  my  journey, 

For  the  way  thither,  I  know,  lies  in  Apollo's  bright  realm. 
First  are  the  vineyards  preparing  their  drops  of  mild  inspiration, 

That  put  coin-age  in  hearts  for  the  ascent  of  the  mount ; 
Not  unmindful  I  pass  them,  for  many  a  leaflet  and  tendril 


6  Delphi. 

Here  are  woven  in  wreaths  which  the  young  Bacchus  did  crown, 
And  the  vine  is  beginning  to  sip  from  the  soil  a  sweet  nectar 

Which  it  will  hold  to  our  lips  when  has  been  mellowed  the  year. 
Next  come  the  Olives,  full  of  sweet  poesy,  in  a  vast  orchard 

Strown  all  over  the  plain,  sporting  in  sunbeams  and  song. 
Often  I  stop  for  a  moment  to  snatch  from  the  tip  of  a  leaflet, 

Just  a  few  notes  of  a  hymn  which  I  hereafter  may  sing ; 
And  I  intend  every  day,  as  long  as  I  linger  at  Delphi, 

To  return  to  these  trees  that  I  may  breathe  of  their  strain. 
Many  a  hearty  young  Olive  is  here  full  of  lusty  rejoicing, 

Many  a  trunk  that  is  old,  wrinkled  and  bent  to  the  ground, 
Yet  with  rich  fruit  it  is  laden.     Runnels  of  water  are  playing 

Round  the  roots  of  the  trees,  lisping  a  lay  with  the  brink. 
For  they  are  bearing  the  dew  of  the  Muses  adown  from  Parnassus : 

Joyous  the  Olives  upspring  to  the  refrain  of  the  brook. 
Also  the  trill  of  the  birds  that  are  singing  unseen  in  the  branches 

Joins  in  the  laugh  of  the  leaves  tuned  to  the  lay  of  the  rill  ; 
Every  twig  in  the  orchard  is  bent  with  Parnassian  songsters 

Matching  their  voice  to  the  clime  in  the  new  season  of  spring. 
Some  of  their  throats  arc  breathing  the  sunniest  note  of  the  panspipe. 

Some  have  the  clarion's  blast  rousing  the  heroes  to  war. 
But  oh  behold — in  the  distance  there  rises  a  beautiful  image 

Through  the  long  lines  of  the  leaves,  flitting  around  'mid  the  trees  ; 
'  Tis  the  Greek  maiden,  busy  at  work-,  yet  arrayed  in  white  garments : 

Scarce  can  I  rightly  discern  whether  that  shape  be  a  drearr. 
Into  the  palm  of  her  hand  each  berry  appears  to  be  flying, 

There  it  nestles  in  glee,  softly,  unwilling  to  leave; 


Delphi.  7 

Nor  would  I,  were  I  in  its  place,  desert  those  embraces, 

In  their  soft  pressure  caressed  would  I  forever  repose. 
Even  a  song  she  intones  to  the  chime  of  the  brook  and  the  leaflets, 

Now  deepest  thrills  can  be  felt  through  the  Parnassian  world. 
Thus  for  miles  I  walk  in  the  musical  Olives  to  Krissa, 

All  is  attuning  my  soul  for  the  approach  to  the  fane — 
To  the  great  Delphian  fane  where  lie  the  domains  of  the  Sungod, 

To  the  Castalian  fount  where  are  the  Muses  enshrined  j 
So  I  have  entered  already  the  presence  of  Gods  in  my  journey, 

And  within  me  a  lyre  throbs  in  a  rapturous  strain. 

2. 

Onward  from  Krissa  I  pass  through  the  winding  and  rock-pointed 
pathway 

Toward  the  Delphian  heights, — still  'tis  the  walk  of  an  hour. 
Kasy  the  road  is  not,  but  gladly  I  grapple  the  hillside. 

Clamber  about  through  the  stones,  yet  with  Parnassus  in  view 
Always  glimmering  white  in  the  distance  far  up  above  me : 

'Tis  a  beacon  of  snow  held  there  aloft  in  the  skies. 
Dusk,  the  dark  Lady,  has  thrown  her  first  vail  of  thin  gauze  o'er  the 
mountain  : 

Still  from  its  silvery  top  falls  P.  soft  splendor  of  light. 
Now  she  commences  lo  lay  her  dim  hand  on  the  face  of  Apollo, 

Who  near  his  Delphian  home  loiters  there  under  the  sea 
Loth  to  quit  the  abode  that  he  loves.     But  look  down  in  the  valley 

Where  the  glad  Olives  erewhile  danced  with  the  beams  of  the  sun; — 
There  the  black  dragons  of  Night  are  creeping  in  stealth  up  the  hillside 


Delphi. 

Out  of  the  valleys  below  that  are  now  filled  with  their  coils. 
'Mid  the  cliffs  they  will  soon  have  come  up  to  me,  still  I  trudge  forward 

Dreaming  of  things  yet  unseen  at  the  great  shrine  of  the  God. 
Hark!  there  rise  behind  me  loud  notes  of  melodious  laughter, — 

'Tis  the  maids  who  return  home  from  the  orchards  below ; 
All  day  long  they  have  stooped  in  hard  labor,  still  they  are  merry : 

Work  intoxicates  here,  flushed  with  the  draughts  from  the  hills. 
So  I  stop  on  my  way,  by  that  group  I  am  soon  overtaken, 

E'en  in  the  dark  I  can  sec  folds  softly  white  falling  down. 
But  as  they  hear,  when  I  greet  their  approach,  the  foreigner's  accent, 

Quickly,  they  strike  up  the  hymn  while  to  the  village  we  pass. 
So  to  the  song  of  the  maidens  grandly  I  enter  high  Delphi, 

In  a  procession  of  old,  like  a  great  pomp  of  the  God. 
But  that  rhythmical  chant  with  its  gait  has  attuned  all  my  fancies, 

Xow  they  move  in  long  strides  round  the  Parnassian  heights ; 
Scarce  can  I  bridle  their  gallop  into  the  short-stepping  English, 

Always  they  reach  out  their  feet  spurning  my  modern  restraints. 
'Tis  the  command  of  the  God,  I  feel  I  must  march  to  his  quickstep, 

And  I  must  sing  to  his  note  while  hei-e  I  tarry  his  guest. 

3 
What  is  that  strain  which  is  sung  by  the  maids  as  we  enter  the  hamlet  ? 

Some  refrain  I  can  hear  throbbing  by  spells  in  the  song. 

Sas  agapo,  sas  agapo — all'  entrepomai  na  sas  eipo  ; — 
Thee  I  love,  thee  I  love — but  I  shame  me  to  tell  thee  ; — 

Such  is  the  version  I  make  causing  my  heart  to  rebound. 
Love,  then,  is  the  sweet  theme  to  whose  music  1  march  into  Delphi, 


Delphi.  9 

And  to  its  beats  I  must  step  after  tin  apron  and  robe — 
Apron  of  red  that  flames  in  the  night  like  the  fierce  torch  of  Eros, 

Robe  as  of  Parian  folds,  white  as  Parnassian  snow. 
In  deep  faith  i  follow  the  omen  that  heralds  me  onward, 

Gone  is  all  1113-  fatigue,  of  a  new  world  now  I  dream. 
On  my  ankles  so  jaded  fleet  pinions  appear  to  be  growing, 

And  by  to-morrow  methinks  they  will  be  ready  for  flight; 
Like  the  feathery-sandaled  Tfnrww^  messenger  swift  of  Olympus, 

I  some  message  shall  bring  down  to  our  Earth  from  the  Gods. 

Sas  agapo,  sas  agapo — all'  entrepomai  na  sas  eipo  : — 
Thee  I  love,  thee  T  love — but  I  shame  me  to  tell  thee  ; — 

Their  confession  is  sweet,  it  I  shall  take  to  my  heart. 
So  already  young  Eros  is  here,  I  can  see  him  flying  before  me 

Cnto  Apollo's  high  fane — both  of  these  deities  rise. 
Who  can  resist  two  Gods,  each  one  of  them  being  almighty? 

1  shall  not  try  to  resist,  nor  do  I  wish  to  resist; 
l>oth  my  worship  shall  have  as  long  as  I  stay  here  at  Delphi, 

Sunlight  and  love  are  my  prayer,  mingled  together  in  song. 

Sas  agapo,  sas  agapo — all'  entrepomai  na  sas  eipo; 
Thee  I  love,  thee  I  love — but  I  shame  me  to  tell  thee  ; — 

You  are  ashamed  then  to  tell  what  you  already  have  told  ? 
<  )h  subtle  Loxias,  doubler  of  words,  thou  hast  doubled  their  meaning, 

Wiles  already  hast  put  into  the  hearts  of  these  maids  ; 
For  they  say  thai  they  love,  and  yet  too  they  say  they  don't  say  so; 

What  a  puzzle  is  this  which  they  are  singing  to  me? — 
Oh  you  a iv  women,  for  what  you  refuse,  just  that  you  are  granting, 

And  you  deny  you  confess  what  you  confess  you  deny. 


10  Delphi. 

Is  it  not  strange  to  say  what  you  say,  then  say  you  don't  say  it. 

And  hv  concealment  reveal  \vliat  you  declare  you  conceal  '! 
Then — the  ambiguous  oracle  on  in.'  hath  breathe  1  alivady. 

And  a  riddle  inspires  just  when  I  enter  his  town. 


CYC  LET  SKCOND. 

i. 

All  the  Gods  here  at  l)elphi  beii'in  to  assemble  around  me, 

And  of  some  share  of  my  life  each  is  securing  command; 
Kach  is  breathing  into  my  heart  subtle  need  of  his  worship, 

And  there  is  now  not  a  (iod  whom  I  would  blot  from  my  son!. 
So  I  must  build  a  threat  Pantheon  where  they  shall  all  dwell   together, 

Gods  and  Goddesses  too.  all  without  chiding  or  .strife; 
And  with  the  hymn  I  shall  build  it.  the  ancient   material  of  Orpheus: 

Every  stone  of  the  fane  shall  be  itself  a  new  soiiij 


Delphi.  H 

And  it  shall  move  to  its  place  in  the  pile  to  the  sound  of  sweet  music. 

Sun"-  to  the  beat  of  the  hymns  as  in  the  dance  of  the  youths. 
Sec  the  chorus  of  marbles  as  from  the  depths  of  the  mountain 

They  are  coming  with  joy  into  the  light  of  the  sun. 
All  the  edges  drop  off  as  they  iit  their  tread  to  the  measure, 

Like  the  white  (I races  they  move  to  the  clear  note  of  the  song. 
Joyous  arc  even  the  stones,  as  the}-  spring  into  order  and  sunlight, 

To  have  left  the  dark  realm  where  Chaos  sits  in  the  earth, — 
Stones  most  deeply  attuned,  to  harmony  hewn  by  that  music : 

Kach  on  the  other  doth  rise,  building  a  glorious  fane ; 
Now  the  marbles  join  hands  in  a  row  of  far-shining  columns, 

Hound  the  bright  temple  they  move  in  a  perpetual  dance. 
So  these  hymns  that  I  build  move  round  my  Pantheon  stately — 

Naught  but  a  chorus  and  song,  all  the  day  long  in  a  whirl. 

2. 

Reader,  it  is  my  desire  to  have  you  go  with  me  a-walking 

Only  this  one  afternoon  dipped  in  the  balm  of  the  clime; 
To  the  harmonious  choir  of  Xature  we  joyous  shall  listen — 

Such  as  she  forms  for  herself  here  on  the  Delphian  hills. 
Out  of  the  windows  of  rock  are  peering  the  eyes  of  the  flowers, 

Wishing  to  see  the  fair  world,  wishing  themselves  to  be  seen  ; 
They  make  the  tapestry  which  is  now  hanging  adown  from  the  hill-tops, 

All  their  bright  colors  you  see  melting  to  beauty  the  cliffs. 
Over  them  hover  Parnassian  bees,  the  merry  musicians, 

In  a  thousand  fold  hum  striking  the  note  of  the  flowers; 
All  with  variance,  from  the  big  drum  of  the  bumble -bee's  pinions 


12  Delphi. 

To  the  small  pipe  of  the  fly  in  yon  avac-ia's  blooms. 
Air  and  sky  to  the  melody  are  most  deeply  accordant, 

They  have  a  festival  too,  for  they  are  married  to-day, 
And  they  now  kiss  in  the  bridal  embrace,  while  lofty  Phloumbouki 

Blandly  his  shaggy  old  sides  sways  in  the  waves  of  the  song. 
Leave  me  not  out,  I  have  also  my  place  in  the  symphony  Delphian, 

For  my  body  is  changed  into  a  many-stringed  harp, 
Which  is  struck  by  the  throbs  that  are  sent  from  the  soul  of  this  Nature, 

Till  I  am  one  with  it  too,  chanting  the  music  I  feel. 
Even  grouty  old  Prosy  would  turn  to  a  hymn  here  at  Delphi, 

And  his  lips  be  a  lyre  touched  by  the  hand  of  a  Muse. 
But  look  up,  for  yonder  now  leap  the  white  folds  of  the  dancers, 

Youths  the  bright  circle  have  formed ;  then  all  the  maidens  appear 
In  a  pi'oeession,  slow-stepping,  until  they  entwine  in  the  chorus, 

When  the  hymn  doth  arise,  tuned  to  the  step  of  the  dance. 
Simple  the  strain,  but  it  melts  to  one  movement  the  voice  and  the  body, 

And  it  unites  with  the  notes  which  the  glad  flowers  prelude; — 
So  that  they  all  with  the  clime  here  one  deep  harmony  utter, 

Tuned  as  of  old  to  the  chords  strung  on  Apollo's  sweet  lyre. 

8. 
Any  little  thing  pleases  me  now,  and  it  pleases  me  greatly, 

For  a  Delphian  content  softly  me  holds  in  its  arms; 
So  whatever  I  see,  I  am  rocked  to  a  musical  measure ; 

On  my  path  are  unchained  thousands  of  images  glad 
As  1  walk  round  this  hill  to  the  sun.     Just  now,  yonder  raven 

Is  the  delight  of  mine  eye  as  he  doth  glide  down  the  vale  ; 


Delphi.  13 

Look  at  his  happy  high  flight,  yet  he  shows  not  the  smallest  exertion, 

While  the  deep  gloss  of  his  back  sports  in  the  dance  of  the  rays, 
And  to  me,  the  beholder,  reveals  subtle  splendors  of  color 

As  he  changes  his  place  raid  the  bright  play  of  the  beams. 
But  the  thing  which  rejoices  me  most  is  the  ease  of  his  movement, 

Not  a  feather  he  stirs  in  his  bold  flight  through  the  skies. 
Wide-extended  his  wings  are,  still  he  doth  fly  without  flapping  ; 

Simply  he  move's,  you  would  say— but  who  can  tell  how  he  moves? 
Kttbrt  appears  not,  lost  in  the  triumph  and  grace  of  his  pinions; 

Struggle  no  clog  puts  on  him,  lord  of  the  paths  of  the  air. 
Always  from  tip  to  tip  in  full  swoop  his  wings  he  outstretches. 

Vet  in  repose  he  remains  during  his  rapidest  flight. 
See  !  now  he  rises  without  one  stroke — but  now  he  is  falling, 

Slowly  descending  beneath  where  are  the  Olives  at  play. 
Suddenly  I  tall  with  him,  here  from  the  side  of  this  mountain, 

Not  a  feather  I  stir  as  through  the  sunbeams  I  sail  j 
No  exertion  I  make  in  order  to  fly,  not  a  struggle — 

Simply  I  move  of  myself,  knowing  not  why  it  it  so. 
I)o  you  not  see  I  am  flown — without  effort  flown  down  to  yon  orchard  ? 

A  fair  phantom  is  there  guiding  the  wings  of  my  soul; 
So  I  fly  like  the  raven, .without  one  flap  of  my  pinions — 

Nay.  without  pinions  I  fly,  sinking  away  in  the  leaves. 

4. 

Many  arc  the  delightful  sounds  that  arc  uttered  by  Nature, 

Many  too  are  the  joys  that  she  instils  in  her  tones; 
But  of  all  of  her  sounds,  the  one  which  to  me  is  most  pleasant 


14  Delphi. 

Is  thi'  lull  of  the  rain  as  it  doth  beat  OH  the  roof 
( )ver  my  head.     In  the  day-time  driven  home  by  the  shower. 

Lon»-  I  sit  with  my  hand  under  my  chin,  and  list 
To  its  sono;  and  its  dance,  for  its  drops  have  come  down  from  Parnassus. 

Rhythmical  drops  out  of  clouds  born  on  the  Muses'  high  seat. 
Thus  they  are  dowered  just  from  their  source  with  symphonious 
movement, 

As  a  chorus  of  youths  step  to  the  pipe  and  the  drum. 
By  the  tire  I  recline  on  my  rug  'neath  the  tiles  of  my  cabin 

Out  of  the  rain's  merry  dash,  still  I  can  hear  all  its  notes. 
Then  I  am  led  by  them  off  into  thoughts  of  a  musical  cadence, 

And  the  whole  world  keeps  time  to  the  soft  pat  of  the  rain. 
Many  a  form  now  comes  up  before  me  far  distant  from  Delphi, 

Out  of  the  shadows  they  rise,  yet  in  the  gleefullest  mood; 
Many  a  shape  that  is  real,  and  many  a  vision  of  poets. 

Many  an  image  of  joy — all   to  the  beat  of  the  rain. 
Fragments  of  lite  I  live  over  again,  now  sweetly  attuned. 

Though  they  a  discord  were  once  in  the  refrain  of  mv  years  ; 
Hopes  of  the  future  too  in  an  harmonious  swell  overflow  me, 

Fvery  hope  has  its  wings  dipped  in  the  rainbow  of  song; 
Joyous  I  fly  on  these  pinions  over  the   ways  of  the  ocean. 

And  the  glad  hour  of  return  in  soft  embraces  I  feel. 
Images  lall  to  the  Earth  from  the  musical  Delphian  Heavens — 

All  have  the  rhythm  of  rain  heard  in  the  dance  of  the  drops. 
But  in  the  night-time,  lying  on  carpets  strown  out  by  my  hostess, 

Love  I  to  glide  into  sleep  to  the  mild  music  of  rain. 
For  its  notes  wind  subtly  along  through  the  gates  of  my  slumber, 


Delphi.  15 

Enter  the  palace  of  dreams  playing  soft  strains  till  the  dawn ; 
And  they  gently  attune  to  sweet  sounds  all  my  memories  errant, 

That  through  the  fields  of  the  past  wantonly  roam  in  the  night ; 
All  my  hopes,  all  my  wandering  thoughts  slip  into  the  measure 

Beaten  by  drops  of  the  rain  on  the  low  roof  overhead. 
Struggle  has  fled  from  the  soul  and  life  is  discordant  no  longer, 

The  great  universe  glides  into  melodious  hymns; 
So  in  slumber  the  deepest  softly  1  hear  the  low  rainfall, 

And  I  sleep  to  its  notes  wrapped  in  a  garment  of  dreams. 

5. 
Kvery  morn  ere  Apollo  has  touched  the  high  top  of  Phlonmbouki, 

From  the  rugs  I  arise  and  to  my  worship  I  go; 
For  a  still  morning  prayer  I  breathe  at  the  fount  of  Castalia 

To  the  harmonious  forms  that  have  their  home  in  the  stream; 
And  I  pray  them  to  show  to  my  reverent  eyes  a  small  fragment 

Of  that  beautiful  world  mirrored  within  the  clear  depths. 
Many  ;i  draught  I  take  of  the  water  that  laughs  from  the  fountain. 

Hands  and  face  there  1  lave  in  the  cool  flow  of  the  rill, 
And  no  cup  will  I  dip  for  a  drink  from  the  brook  of  the  Muses, 

But  I  fall  down  on  my  knees,  prop  my  two  hands  on  the  stones, 
And  then  slowly  my  lips  I  press  to  the  crystalline  water: 

When  I  feel  a  soft  kiss  from  a  bright  maid  in  the  stream. 
Fain  would  I  sink  to  that  shape  and  be  lost  in  tender  embraces, 

Live  a  transparent  life  there  with  her  under  the  wave, 
Or,  attended  by  nymphs,  expire  on  the  couch  of  her  mosses: 

But  with  a  touch  to  her  lips,  quick  from  my  worship  I  rise. 


Pi  Delphi. 

For  thus  early  are  passing  this  way  the  maids  of  the  village. 

Down  to  the  Olives  they  pass,  mingling  their  labor  with  hymns. 
Also  they  take  a  cool  drink  from  the  stream  as  it  bubbles  pellucid. 

And  with  their  finger  tips  moist  tinge  their  fresh  cheeks  with  its  drops; 
Then  the  roses  come  pulsing  into  the  lilies  by  heart-throbs: 

Long  I  stand  by  the  rill — slyly  I  glance  in  each  face. 
Thus  I  do  every  sunrise,  and  I  am  always  rewarded 

With  some  image  of  joy  that  me  illumes  all  the  day. 
80  a  maiden  this  morning  leaped  on  a  rock  by  the  wayside, 

Drew  up  her  horse  by  the  bit,  gave  a  quick  spring  and  a  whirl ; 
For  a  moment  shelflew  through  the  air,  then  lit  in  the  saddle 

Like  a  bird  on  a* branch — wings  she  must  have,  I  am  sure. 
Bravo!  I  cry,  and  she  sends  to  my  greeting  a  proud  smile  of  triumph. 

Then  away,  away,  into  the  Olives  she  speeds 
Hiding  over  the  rocks  down  the  steep  like  a  bold  Palicari  : 

But  she  leaves  me  that  smile  as  the  fond  toy  of  the  day, 
For  wherever  I  stroll,  with  that  phantom  I  find  myself  pla}*ing. 

Through  all  my  thoughts  it  doth  wind,  giving  them  color  and  mood, 
Though  they  may  be  on  the  Earth's  other  side.     Thus  it  wakes  along 
with  me ; 

But  in  my  afternoon  nap  slyly  it  enters  my  dream ; 
There  amid  the  absurd  irresponsible  throng  of  my  visions 

It  is  swimming  in  glee  showing  the  laugh  in  a  mask. 
Fain  would  I  fix  its  vanishing  form  of  delight  in  these  verselets. 

That  I  may  look  at  ft  oft,  would  even  show  it  to  friends. 


Delphi.  17 

6. 
What  art  thou  writing,  she  asks  me,  here  in  the  shade  of  the  Olives? 

For  a  pencil  and  book  often  I  see  in  thy  hand, 
Whilst  on  the  paper  thou  makest  strange  letters  of  a  strange  language; 

(Quickly  they  dance  through  a  line,  then   the}'  turn  back  at  the  end. 
Restlessly  too  thou  dost  stop  sometimes  with  a  look  of  vexation, 

As  if  a  God  held  thine  arm  from  its  free  sweep  to  its  scope. 
But  'tis  only  a  rock  that  dams  for  a  moment  Castalia, 

Or  a  small  pebble  perchance  fretting  the  flow  of  the  stream ; 
Vet  the  sly  Muse  is  soon  there  and  removes  the  obstruction, 

Rapidly  then  darts  thy  hand  through  all  the  symbols  unknown. 
So  to  my  fancy  there  bubbles  out  of  the  point  of  thy  pencil 

Words  like  the  drops  that  well  up  into  the  Muses'  abode. 
Also  thou  seemest  at  times  to  count  on  the  tips  of  thy  fingers 

That  in  a  measure  the  lines  train  to  the  tones  of  thy  voice ; 
Thus  like  the  tremulous  thrill  of  the  sea  they  dance  in  their  motion, 

Joined  in  a  rise  and  a  fall  led  by  the  Graces  in  hand  j 
And  each  word  neatly  glides  into  lines  of  incessant  recurrence, 

Just  as  Castalia  skips  ever  along  the  same  rocks, 
Though  the  crystalline  flow  of  its  waters  be  less  or  be  greater, 

Though  wild  droplets  may  dash  out  of  the  stream  in  their  joy. 
KVad  me  thy  words,  I  beg  thee,  e'en  if  I  know  not  their  meaning, 

Gladly  I  hear  them  move  to  the  command  of  thy  voice, 
Kor  they  have  a  rhythmical  tread,  like  the  youths  of  the  chorus, 

To  caramousa  and  drum  daintily  stepping  in  time. 
'•Poesy's  flatterer  sweet,  it  is  well  thou  knowest  not  English," 

Modestly  then  I  replied,  though  I  believed  all  her  words. 


IS  .Delphi. 

7. 
Yes  these  lines  that  I  write  are  quite  like  the  youths  of  the  chorus; 

Many  the  dancers  we  see  moving  along  with  the  step, 
Some  are  better,  some  worse,  and  some  may  be  said  to  be  neither; 

Some  will  fall  out  of  time  in  the  fierce  rush  of  their  zeal; 
Some  also  know  not  the  step  in  spite  of  the  care  of  the  master, 

Whatever  pains  he  may  take,  they  will  not  tread  to  his  beat. 
Some  move  in  time,  it  is  true,  but  have  little  grace  in  the  movement. 

Some  merely  walk  through  the  dance  to  the  rude  stroke  of  the  drum. 
Some  are  too  buoyant  in  spirit  forgetting  the  moderate  measure. 

Some  are  sluggards  in  gait,  e'en  sinking  down  to  blank  prose. 
But  there  are  others — the  most  of  them — beautiful  youths  of  the  chorus. 

Maidens  with  soft  glowing  cheeks,  forms  of  white  grace  in  the  dance — 
Xote  them,  I  pray  thee,  how  freely  they  step  to  the  sound  of  the  music. 

For  their  fair  bodies  thrill  just  to  the  voice  of  the  Muse 
Who  now  speaks  to  them  out  of  the  fount  of  limpid  Castalia, 

And  they  list  and  obey  all  what  their  (Joddess  commands. 
These  make  the  chorus  along  with  its  hymn  a  glorious  vision 

Fallen  1'rom  ages  of  old  down  to  the  hours  of  to-day; 
It  in  its  movement  reflects  that  ancient  Greek  heaven  refulgent, 

Though  now  and  then  cloudy  streaks  pass  through  the  sunshine  of 

song. 
Look  not  at  those  who  are  always  making  mistakes  or  are  awkward, 

Though  the  master  may  beat  vainly  and  long  with  his  hand, 
Xod  with  h's  head,  e'en  stamp  with  his  feet  tl.at  they  liill  into  measure — 

Every  misstep  that  th\y  lake  thiobs  a  fierce  jar  in  his  sou!. 
But  nearly  all  of  the  youths  haveobcj-cd  now,  though  full  of  mad  frolic. 


.Delphi.  19 

And  they  follow  the  beat  with  an  unconscious  light  treact. 
Backward  and  forward  they  move,  then  around  the  circle  together, 

Many  a  garland  the}'  weave,  out  of  their  motions  inwrought ; 
Often  a  beautiful  youth  who  is  placed  at  the  head  of  the  chorus 

Leaps  in  the  air  and  whirls,  forming  a  flower  of  folds. 
First  look  at  all  of  them,  as  they  are  winding  around  on  the  greensward  : 

Then  thou  sing]}'  wilt  choose,  whoever  gives  thee  delight. 
Seek  what  is  beautiful  ever,  the  ugly  need  not  be  sought  for  : 

So  the  dance  will  delight,  tor  it  is  joyous  and  fair. 


O!i  Dimitri,  I  hail  thee — thou  art  a  poetical  being, 

Thou  wert  born  a  hymn,  placid  content  is  thy  life. 
Musical  too  are  thy  hours  as  they  flow  in  harmonious  cadence, 

And  thy  moments  of  time  are  little  waves  of  sweet  sounds. 
Here  thou  dost  lie  on  this  stone,  smooth  fragment  of  some  ancient  temple, 

From  whose  broken  forms  gush  many  beautiful  strains; 
For  they  were  fashioned  by  hands  that  were  tuned  to  the  lyre  of  Apollo 

Still  the  marble  breathes  notes  which  from  the  God  were  thrilled. 
So  this  stone,  too,  Dimitri,  is  a  low  hymn,  in  deep  concord 

With  thy  nature  and  life,  as  I  behold  thee  just  now. 
Both  thou  and  it  are  sweetly  attuned  by  the  clime  to  one  key-note 

Though  the  instruments  are  greatly  diverse  in  their  kind. 
Truly  a  child  of  Delphi  thou  art — of  its  music  and  temples, 

And  thou  art  one  with  the  rays  which  thou  dost  lie  in  all  day. 
No  wild  winds  can  ever  disturb  thy  serenity's  ocean, 

As  thine  eyes  half-shut,  look  into  nought  but  the  sun. 


20  Delphi. 


even  cranky  old  Seismos  can  shake  thy  repose  everlasting 

As  on  thy  elbow  propped,  resting  thy  head  on  thy  hand 
Thou  dost  recline  on  this  column  outstretched.  Let  me  sit  down  beside 
thee, 

And  be  transftn-med  by  1hy  spell  into  a  Delphian  lyre; 
For  I  wish  to  be  played  upon  here  by  invisible  fingers, 

And  in  the  soul  of  my  soul  feel  the  calm  strains  of  the  God. 
But  I  must  take  out  my  book  and  my  pencil,  stung  by  a  gadfly 

Which  the  Muses  have  sent  from  yon  Castalian  brook, 
And  HO  rest  can  I  find  till  in  measures  I  shape  what  they  whisper, 

Punishment  'tis,  I  fear,  for  an  old  curse  in  my  blood. 
But  oh  Dimitri,  a  greater  thou  art  than  the  maker  of  poems, 

Thou  art  a  poem  thyself  sung  through  harmonious  days. 

9. 
host  thou  behold  yon  tattered  cloudlets  of  film  that  are  flying 

Up  the  valley  below  as  with  the  wings  of  a  bird? 
Subtlest  gauze  are  their  bodies,  resisting  no  beam  of  Apollo, 

But  their  speed  is  the  wind's,  with  the  light  gossamer's  play. 
Millions  on  millions  they  hasten,  all  of  them  silvery,  lucent  : 

At  nly  feet  they  now  swim  as  I  go  round  the  high  mount. 
Not  unimportant  their  errand  is,  if  thou  eouldst  but  divine  it: 

Secret  duty  they  have,  to  them  entrusted  by  (iods. 
(I  ness  it  thou  canst  not,  though  thou  endeavor,  so  let  me  tell  thee  : 

Hither  they  hasten  to  join  aim:es  of  deep-drenching  clouds 
Far  up  Parnassus;  round  bis  high  top  and  his  sides  they  assembly 

Till  from  their  watery  films  grow  the  dense  h<  sts  or  the  storm. 


Delphi.  21 

Thence  they  descend  from  the  summit  with  huge  sieves  of  water 

Which  on  the  Olives  are  poured  that  with  much  fruit  they  be  hung. 
Likewise  every  bright  rill  that  leaps  down  the  sides  of  the  Mountain, 

Will  be  full  in  its  banks  and  overflow  in  the  plain, 
Bearing  its  freshness  and  beauty  to  all  of  the  vineyards  and  orchards ; 

Then  too  the  flowers  will  spring,  dressing  the  hills  in  their  robes, 
For  the  beautiful  spirit  of  Nature  they  win  from  her  bod}', 

And  they  deck  her  fair  form  till  it  doth  mirror  her  soul. 
So  much  comes  from  these  filmy  cloudlets  when  they  are  gathered 

Into  drops  of  the  rain  or  in  Parnassian  streams. 
Look !  the  Heavens  are  full  of  them — at  their  speed  too  1  wonder; 

They  in  their  chase  for  the  top  strike  the  rough  sides  of  the  steep 
And  thus  lose  of  their  delicate  moisture.     How  rapt  is  their  struggle 

The  very  uppermost  height  yonder  to  gain  in  their  race! 
Thus  would  I  say  to  them:  Patience,  (.)  little,  silvery  cloudlet, 

Thy  gentle  drops  do  not  dash  where  they  are  lost  on  the  rocks; 
He  thou  controlled  by  the  hand  of  a  God  along  with  thine  instinct, 

He  will  lead  thee  in  time  where  thou  thy  kindred  wilt  join 
<  )n  yon  summit  whence  is  sent  down  the  sweet  dew  of  the  Muses  : 

Thence  every  pasture  of    Karlh  verdant  will  grow  from  thy  drops. 

10. 
Tired  of  the  Muses'  incessant  throng  I  fled  to  the  mountains, 

For  they  embraced  me  too  hard  in  the  nirle  clasp  of  their  arms; 
Round  their  fountain  I  loitered,  and  down  their  streamlet  I  sauntered  ; — 

Too  many  kisses  they  gave,  I  could  not  stand  so  much  love. 
So  to  th3  cliffs  I  \\andered,  trying  to  think  a!  o:;t  in  thing, 


22  TMpln. 

And  I  succeeded  quite  well  for  the  first  time  that  I  tru-d. 
One  empty  day  I  sought — one  which  was  utterly  empty, 

That  I  might  lay  it  between  other  bright  Delphian  days 
Always  filled  to  rich  overflow  with  the  fond  whispers  of  Muses : 

Xow  my  feeling  was  blunt  with  the  excess  of  delight. 
Much  too  long  had  I  tried  to  look  at  Olympian  radiance; 

Both  of  my  eyes  were  blind  from  the  fierce  gleams  of  the  (Jods. 
So  their  presence  T  shunned,  I  ran  from  their  haunts,  from  their  temples, 

Void  of  the  (.rods  T  would  live  just  the  short  course  of  the  sun. 
To  the  Korykian  cave  I  retire,  to  the  core  of  the  mountain, 

There  to  remain  in  the  dark  freed  from  the  shapes  of  the  light  ; 
Into  the  gloomy  recesses  I  enter  with  flickering  taper : 

Look  at  this  arch  overhead — 'tis  after  all  some  fane ; 
And  behold  fiese  crystalline  figures  built  by  the  droplets — 

Hundreds  of  images  rise  dripped  from  above  to  the  Earth. 
So  they  are  here  too,  those  bright  "onus  are  here,  and  dwell  in  their 
temple : 

It  is  Pan,  I  sh(.ul  1  say.  with  all  the  train  of  his  nymphs. 
Truly  if  man  will  not  build  their  abode,  it  is  bjiilt  by  kind  Nature. 

Even  their  statues  she  forms  deftly  from  rocks  of  the  mount, 
Setting  them  up  in  their  temple  >.    Escape  from  the  Gods  here  in  Hellas! 

Here  they  were  bcrn  in  the  past,  here  they  at  present  appear;  — - 
In  dark  caverns  they  shine  as  well  as  in  realms  of  the  sunlight: 

If  thou  do^t  flee  from  a  God,  thou  dost  but  rush  to  his  arms. 


Delphi.  23 


CYCLE!  THIRD. 

1. 
Let  me  calmly  think  over  what  gave  me  to-day  the  most  pleasure, 

Xow  that  the  hours  have  passed  and  I  am  stretched  on  this  rug, 
Ready  through  cloudlets  of  slumber  to  enter  the  portal  of  dreamland : 

Thither  to  carry  along  something  of  joy  is  my  wish ; 
For  I  shall  keep  it  and  sport  with  it  all  the  lone  spell  of  the  night-tide, 

And  I  new  colors  shall  weave  through  the  bright  play  of  its  hues. 
What  is  my  choice,  then,  out  of  the  throng  of  beautiful  visions? 

'Tis  a  maiden  I  saw  spring  on  her  horse  from  a  rock 
At  the  side  of  the  road  as  she  went  from  the  village  this  morni'ng, 

For  her  image  and  feat  with  me  have  gone  all  the  day. 
On  the  air  she  appeared  to  fly  with  invisible  pinions 

From  the  top  of  that  stone,  till  in  the  saddle  she  lit ; 
Then  old  Sorrel  starts  off  on  a  trot  as  she  takes  up  her  spindb, 

Also  the  distaff  she  holds — draws  out  the  cottcn  thereon; 
With  her  fingers  she  sorts  it  and  pulls  it  to  suitable  thinness. 

Then  gives  the  spindle  a  whirl  till  the  small  fibres  be  spun; 
Xext  she  skillfully  reels  the  white  yarn  on  the  spool  of  the  spindle. 

Till  the  clew  has  been  made  ready  for  shuttle  and  loom. 
That  is  the  maiden  for  me — each  moment  of  life  is  an  action, 

Brings  to  the  world  a  new  deed,  wl:ich,  be  it  snu;!1,  yet  is  good. 
So  all  the  while  that  her  hois;  moves  rapidly  down  to  the  Olives, 

She  is  spinning  the  thread  for  the  fair  fold*  in  the  dance; 
Each  of  the  threads  has  the  glance  of  her  eye  and  the  touch  of  her  finger 


24  Delphi. 

Which  they  will  cany  along  into  the  garment  when  wove. 
Thus  they  musical  ever  must  be  with  her  skill  and  her  fancy, 

For  they  all  will  declare  what  she  has  laid  in  her  work  ; 
When  the  folds  of  the  vestment  shall  wave  on  the  youth  in  the  c'.ionis. 

(ilorious  hymns  they  will  sing,  which  were  inwrought  of  her  soul  ; 
Every  thread  will  join  its  own  little  strain  to  that  music 

That  from  the  garment  doth  rise,  tuned  to  the  play  of  the  folds. 


Out  by  the  Delphian  way  to  Arachoba  Kalligynaika, 

Town  of  the  beautiful  maids,  under  Parnassian  tops, 
Slowly  I  clomb,  when  far  up  the  mount  I  beheld  a  red  apron 

Dropping  in  flames  to  the  ground  over  a  lap  of  white  folds. 
Both  of  the  hues  stood  out  on  the  air  a'ar  up  the  mountain ; 

Form  I  could  scarcely  discern  in  the  twin  colors'  embrace. 
On  white  modesty's  folds  there  lay  the  redness  of  passion. 

Chaste  was  the  view  to  the  eye,  yet  ever  challenged  to  love. 
"Wings  of  crimson  appeared  to  rest  on  the  down  of  a  bosom; 

Bird  it  was  to  the  look  with  its  bright  plumage  enskyed. 
Bird  it  was  and  loudly  it  sang  on  the  perch  of  the  vineyard. 

Till  the  sides  of  the  mount  sweetly  were  flooded  with  song 
Overflowing  the  Olives  with  music  mellowed  by  distance: 

Vocal  all  .X at ure  it  made — vocal  it  made  me  too, 
^Nightingale  I  was  going  to  say — but  in  verses  of  poets 

That  poor  birdling  has  sung  till  it  has  lost  all  its  voice. 
There  I  look  at  the  tints  and  list  to  the  lay  of  Parnassian  song) res-. 

Till  together  they  melt  into  harmonious  tones; 


Delphi.  25 

Sonic  dear  pain  fills  her  throat  and  si-ts  all  the  hill  tops  a-throbbing, 

Still  the  warm  notes  have  a  soul  white  as  the  robe  of  the  maid. 
Love  now  ingrains  with  its  blush  those  folds  of  modesty  candid — 

So  speaks  softly  her  dress,  so  too  speaks  softly  her  song. 
See  !  another  has  joined  her,  having  the  same  red  pinions 

Lapped  on  the  fleeces  beneath  j  now  there  are  two  of  the  birds; 
Yet  another  draws  near,  then  another,  Oh,  still  another : — 

Now  a  dozen  or  more  stand  on  yon  ridge  far  above. 
Give  me,  Oh  fancy,  some  image  in  which-  to  imprison  these  singers, 

That  I  may  take  them  along  when  I  Parnassus  shall  leave, 
And  be  able  to  list  to  their  strain  in  my  journey  forever: 

Simply  say,  'tis  a  flock — flock  of  bright  birds  on  the  slope, 
That  together  high  up  there  have  lit,  the  red-winged,  white-bodied, 

Nature's  boon  to  this  clime,  born  of  the  sun  and  the  heights. 
Note  the  color  of  voices  attuned  to  the  color  of  garments, 

Hinting  the  passion  of  youth  tempered  with  chastity's  snow. 
Hark  to  the  choir !  their  lay  is  of  love  with  its  pang  and  its  pleasure ; 

All  of  the  flock  are  alike — have  but  one  note  in  the  heart. 
List !  that  note  1  have  too  in  my  heart — I  am  going  to  sing  it — 

Merely  a  bird  would  I  be — now  1  fly  up  to  that  flock. 

3. 

Wherefore  are  all  of  the  maids  on  these  hills  arrayed  in  like  colors? 

Why  has  each  thrush  in  the  field  ever  the  same  kind  of  plumes  ? 
Why  can  sing  but  one  lay  the  nightingale  hid  in  the  hedges? 

Nature  has  given  the  law  which  all  her  children  control. 
She  has  appareled  tin-  shapes  that  move  on  the  slant  of  this  mountain; 


26  Delphi. 

Delphian  instinct  they  have,  deeper  by  far  than  design. 
These  bright  robes  are  one  with  the  sun  and  the  sky,  with  the  hilltops — 

Here  they  grow  from  the  soil,  any  thing  else  can  not  be. 
So  I  saunter  along  by  the  road  and  gaze  at  the  colors; 

Red  on  white  from  the  heights  foil  in  mine  eye  with  a  spell, 
And  attaches  some  strong  invisible  thread  to  my  heartstrings 

That  I  am  drawn  to  yon  maid  out  of  my  way  up  the  steep. 
There  for  the  raindrops  she  busily  loosens  the  earth  of  the  vineyard 

Whose  fine  rootlets  must  sif>  ere  of  the  wine  we  ma}'  sip ; 
Labor  has  modeled  the  turn  of  her  limbs  with  the  skill  of  a  sculptor, 

While  the  Graces  have  drawn  every  line  of  her  shape ; 
Gentle  exertion,  the  subtlest  of  painters,  has  penciled  her  features, 

Dipped  in  Parnassian  airs  are  all  the  hues  of  her  face. 
As  I  approach,  the  red  garment  she  grasps,  on  the  white  she  adjusts  it — 

Still  she  is  but  a  bird  pruning  her  plu    es  for  display 
When  peradventure  some  male  of  her  kind  that  way  may  be  flying: 

Now  the  same  tints  I  observe  twinned  in  her  visage  and  form, 
For  her  cheeks  are  two  roses  imbedded  in  garlands  of  lilies — 

Passion's  rapturous  flush  chastened  in  snowy  restraint. 
What  can  Xature  here  mean, — the  sly  dame — by  displaying  t  hese  colors  ? 

Still  I  ask  of  myself,  springing  with  joy  up  the  steep. 
Thou  art  a  fool,  a  blind  fool — was  the  answer  I  heard  to  my  question, — 

Look  at  thyself  and  think  what  thou  art  doing  just  now. 
Has  not  the  male  been  allured  by  that  bird  to  fly  up  this  hillside 

Through  the  enchantment  of  hues; — what  better  reason  than  this? 
When  she  drew  thither  thine  eyes — still  more,  when  she  drew  thy  foot 
steps — 


Delphi.  ,  27 

That  was  the  aim  of  this  dress,  its  divine  end  was  fulfilled  ; 
For  to  a  bird  it  transformed  thee,  so  that  thou  flew'st  up  the  mountain 
Where  was  the  apron  of  red  laid  on  the  kirtle  of  white. 

4. 
Yonder  the  crow  swims  down  through  the  river  of  air  in  the  valley,. 

Iiiver  that  fills  the  high  banks  built  out  of  mountains  of  stone ; 
Sportively  now  he  flaps  his  black  wings  in  the  glare  of  the  sunshine,. 

Then  he  whirls  over  for  fun  right  on  his  back  in  the  air, 
And  appears  to  be  falling.     But  with  a  caw  he  soon  catches 

Wind  in  his  plumage  of  jet  and  with  the  sunbeams  he  skims 
daily  along  in  his  flight;  more  boldly  he  oars  too  his  pinions, 

Even  he  glides  up  the  rays  toward  the  fierce  eye  of  the  day. 
That  rough  note  is  but  laughter; — again  he  whirls  over,  laughing 

That  all  the  world  he  can  fool  by  a  mere  feint  of  a  fall. 
SOUK-  black  gallant  he  is,  from  amorous  conquest  returning 

3Iongst  the  dusky  young  fowl  that  have  their  home  in  these  hills, 
So  the  crow  in  his  g^vyety  sports  down  the  Delphian  valley 

In  a  wild  play  with  his  wings  till  to  the  Olives  he  sinks  : 
There  the  maids. are  at  work,  and  they  also  of  love  are  singing; 

Even  the  croW  of  the  air  seems  to  drop  down  to  their  song. 
So  too  I  dally  in  sunshine  with  Eros  whose  wings  I  have  borrowed. 

Every  da}-  I  hover  for  sport,  over  the  Olives  upborne, 
And  at  times  I  seem  to  be  falling — in  love  to  be  falling, 

But  I  catch  myself  soon,  high  in  the  air,  with  a  laugh. 


5. 
Here  is.  said  Ynnkos,  tbe  merry  resort  of  the  town  —  let  us  enter, 

Alaga/i  is  its  name  as  thou  wilt  hear  from  each  tongue  ; 
Floor  it  has  none  —  hence  be  not  surprised  that  thy  step  is  so  noiseless, 

For  the  ground  has  been  wrought  to  a  thick  carpet  of  dust 
By  the  tread  of  the  feet  of  these  villagers  now  for  some  ages; 

Bow  as  you  enter,  —  your  head  else  will  be  rapped  from  above. 
Xot  a  chair  can  be  seen,  sit  down  on  this  bench  at  the  table  ; 

Table  and  bench  are  adorned,  carved  in  the  jacknife's  strong  lines. 
Somewhat  dark  is  the  room,  from  a  single  low  door  it  is  lighted  : 

Still  on  a  counter  displayed  see  the  huge  bottles  of  joy. 
rp  wards  glance  —  no  ceiling  obstructs  the  view  of  the  rafters, 

Quinces,  pomegranates  there  hang  in  the  dry  orchard  of  beams. 
But  let  us  try  these  immaculate  drops  now  —  drops  of  pure  virtue, 

That  from  the  Delphian  rocks  by  the  good  vine  is  distilled. 
In  their  fragrance  they  subtly  are  breathing  the  breath  of  the  wine-god, 

Who  will  not  leave  his  old  realm  though  he  in  poverty  come. 
This,  oh  friend,  is  the  temple  of  Bacchus  —  temple  not  ancient, 

Where  still  his  worshipers  meet,  they  ai-e  assembled  here  now. 
Poor  God,  how  I  do  pit}'  thee  banished  to  dirt  and  to  darkness 

Who  dost  illumine  the  soul  with  all  thy  flashes  divine  I 
Once  thou  didst  dwell  in  the  light  mid  pillars  of  white  alabaster, 

Many  a  statue  of  old  with  thy  young  form  was  imbreathed, 
Wound  with  tendrils  arid  leaves  of  the  grape  ana  crowned  with  its 
clusters;  — 

Sculptured  oft  were  thy  deeds  high  on  the  temple  and  tomb. 
Still  oh  Bacchus  ihou  livest,  on  mortals  still  breathest  divinely. 


Delphi.  29 

I  can  sec  thy  old  flash  hen-  in  this  rude  Maga/i. 
!Xow  I  invoke  thy  divinity  for  a  sly  touch  of  thy  freiuy, — 

£, 

Glorious  madman  of  Gods,  rattlj-  thy  thyrse  in  mine  eye--. 

6. 
Often  sly  little  Eros  I  find  in  the  train  of  will  Bacchus, 

Covered  with  tendrils  and  leaves,  hid  in  the  clusters  of  grapes; 
Then  the  }'oung  rogue  peeps  out  of  the  foliage  which  he  has  stolen, 

From  his  small  puffy  cheeks  flashing  light  dimples  of  laughs. 
Oft  with  fair  Semele's  son  he  is  seen  unfolding  new  pinions, 

And  he  flies  after  that  God,  rapidly  chasing  each  draught 
As  it  sparkles  down  into  the  soul  through  the  ducts  of  the  body; 

Love  with  the  thrill  of  the  wine  enters  high  fantasy's  hall. 
80  the  weird  juice  doth  glide  into  every  dark  nook  of  our  being, 

Which  it  then  makes  all  light  with  rapid  flashes  divine, 
And  with  its  rapture  it  touches  the  body's  invisible  genius, 

Giving  a  wing  to  each  sense  till  it  mount  up  to  the  sun. 
Soon  the  shy  Muses,  though  they  be  naked,  appear  to  the  wine-god, 

Showing  their  secretcst  wealth  to  the  devout  of  his  train. 
All  the  Xine  will  pass  before  eyes  that  are  rapt  in  his  worship, 

Seen  in  their  beautiful  form  only  through  drops  of  the  wine; 
To  the  adorer  true-hearted  they  come  with  tender  embraces, 

Whisper  a  hymn  of  their  own  which  he  remembers  and  writes. 
Raise  the  bowl  to  my  lips,  advance  it  full  to  my  tongue-tip, 

That  its  si}'  power  may  glide  into  the  soul  at  a  touch  ; 
For  I  wish  to  behold  the  resplendent  forms  of  the  Muses, 

Their  soft  whispers  to  catch  dripping  Olympian  song. 


30  Delphi. 

But  look  here — on  the  rim  of  this  beaker  is  balancing  Eros, 
Flapping  his  pinions  in  play,  ready  to  fly  at  a  draught. 

7. 
The  wild  throng  of  the  Gods  this  time  has  a  little  unsettled  me, 

And  a  confusion  divine  sports  on  the  throne  of  my  brain  ; 
For  too  many  Olympian  guests  have  knocked  at  my  palace, 

Too  much  divinity  here  me  the  poor  mortal  assailed. 
First  came  Bacchus,  the  leaf-covered,  grape-haired  beautiful  stripling; 

To  me  he  gave  a  small  craze  just  at  the  tip  of  the  tongue. 
Eros  followed  hard  after,  and  soothed  me  with  soft  little  wing-strokes, 

Him  I  fondled  and  hugged  but  by  his  arrow  was  stung; 
Still  from  that  puncture  I  suffer  a  sly  indefinable  tickle : 

Henceforth  I  must  take  care  how  I  caress  the  mad  boy. 
Bacchus  and  Eros,  I  find  now,  share  the  domains  of  Apollo 

Here  in  his  Delphian  seat,  they  too  are  perched  on  these  rocks 
Wine  doth  oifer  its  beaker  of  humorous  rapture  to  wisdom, 

Love  hurls  a  torch  in  the  soul,  kindling  each  faculty  high. 
Xor  is  absent  the  Muse  from  the  hallowed  home  of  the  Sungod, 

All  of  the  Sisters  lurk  still  in  Castalia's  stream  ; 
These  too  gave  a  low  rap  at  my  door  and  demanded  admittance, 

While  the  wings  of  the  boy  fanned  balmy  air  in  my  face. 
Thus  many  Gods  are  driving  me — all  of  them  often  together, 

Often  singly  they  come,  pulling  me  hither  and  yon, 
Whence  among  them  great  strife.     But  Eros  is  always  the  victor, 

For  the  Xine  him  assist  turning  his  flutter  to  hymns, 
And  a  delicious  melo  ly  flows  from  the  flap  of  his  pinions 


Delphi.  31 

Which  even  Jove  subdues  to  the  sweet  lull  of  its  spell. 
Yet  I  know  not  if  Eros  it  be  who  has  help  from  the  Muses, 

Or  if  the  Muses  it  be  who  are  by  Eros  inspired. 
Ask  me  not  to  decide,  I  pray,  the  difficult  question, 

If  I  sing  for  my  love  or  if  I  love  for  my  song. 
Both  are  divine,  I  assure  thce,  and  both  have  my  lervidest  worship, 

And  a  temple  to  both  I  shall  erect  with  the  hymn  ; 
Yes,  Love  is  divine,  but  divine  are  also  the  pearl-dropping  Miues, 

Either  may  grapple  my  hand — then  I  am  U>d  by  a  GoJ. 
Nor  forget  in  the  Delphian  background  stands  ever  Apollo, 

Who  well  knows  what  lie  dees,  whether  he  love  or  he  sing. 


32  Delphi. 


(TCLET  FOURTH. 
1. 

Holy  Castalia  is  not  deserted,  it  still  has  a  worship, 

Though  divinities  new  hero  are  enthroned  out  of  place; 
For  the  dark -stolcd  Saint  now  presides  in.  the  bright-dropping  fountain, — 

The  fair  fane  of  the  Muse  yields  to  the  shrine  of  Saint  John. 
Still  there  is  joy  in  the  thought  that  continually  here  is  devotion, 

That  the  beauty  antique  gleams  Through  the  ages  of  night. 
But  the  black  robe  of  the  Saint  supersedes  the  white  folds  of  the  (i.xldess; 

Long  are  his  hair  and  his  beard,  gloomy  his  thoughts  are  and  grim  ; 
Skull  and  bones  lie  around  him,  while  he  on  eternity   maunders, 

Starved  into  tatters  <>•'  flesh,  M-rinkled  in  form  to  a  rag. 
This  is  the  body  that   made  revelations  of  beasts  and  of  monsters 

Whose  grisly  offspring  have  slimed  many  Parnassian  rills. 
Banish  Oh  Psyche  forever  the  brood  of  dragons  and  devils, 

The  dark  brood  of  Hell  born  in  the  brain  of  the  Saints, 
Who  have  changed  the  beautiful  world  to  a  jungle  of  goblins, 

Till  the  horrible  craze  seems  to  have  made  us  all  mad. 
What  a  pity  that,  now  they  possession  should  have  of  Castalia, 

And  such  monsters  should  breed  right  in  the  Muses'  glad  stream  ! 
So  have  the  clear  voiced  Sisters  been  frightened  away  from  their  waters. 

Always  to  sing  they  refuse  when  they  with  horror  are  filled. 


Delphi.  33 

Oh  the  Saints  atrabiliary,  dismal  their  thought  and  their  raiment, 

Dark  they  are  to  the  eye,  equally  dark  to  the  soul. 
And  I  confess,  the  angels  are  not  to  my  liking,  though  radiant. 

They  are  some  neutral  thing,  though  all  their  wings  be  of  gold, 
For  they  seem  but  of  one  sex,  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  of  no  sex;. 

Tf  they  be  woman  or  man,  surely  it  does  them  no  good. 
But  the  irymphs  I  adore,  as  they  show  their  forms  in  the  fountain, 

Often  I  look  at  them  bathe,  sporting  their  limbs  in  its  plash, 
Xor  do  they  hide  the  white  body  away  in  the  dungeon  of  garments, 

As  if  guilty  they  were,  having  divinity's  form. 

2. 

What  is  that  sound  re-echoing  out  of  the  gorge  of  Bagenyi 

When  the  Caslalian  fount  shows  the  first  crystalline  throb  "' 
Oft  the  dull  thud  is  repeated  and  smites  the  rough  side  of  the  mountain 

'Tis  the  blow  of  a  maul  in  the  firm  hand  of  a  dame 
Who  is  washing  and  pounding  the  folds  into  whiteness  and  order; 

Even  the  folds  must  be  beat  ere  to  new  music  they  move. 
Then  they  will  glide  most  winsomely  into  the  rhythm  of  sculpture, 

And  they  will  glow  in  the  dance  on  the  fair  youth  as  he  treads. 
Just  behold  those  vigorous  blows  from  the  arm  of  the  washer : 

Seeing  a  thing  made  clean  gives1  a  delight  to  the  Gods. 
Many  Xausicaas  now  are  preparing  their  own  and  their  brothers' 

Irreproachable  robes  for  the  gay  dance  at  the  feast. 
But  Oh  think — this  is  poesy's  fount,  this  is  the  rill  of  Castalia 

Which  is  now  used  by  the  town  cleansing  its  filth  in  the  stream. 
What  do  the  Muses  say  to  it  as  they  arise  from  the  water? 


•'!+  Delphi. 

Are  the}-,  I  wonder,  in  wrath,  or  do  they  sanction  this  use? 
But  a  voice,  playing  over  the  sin-face,  thus  spake  from  the  brooklet : 

It  is  right,  it  is  right,  and  I  approve  every  blow. 
Many  a  stain  besmirches  the  raiment  of  sunny  Parnassus; 

Great  is  the  need  just  now  that  it  be  thoroughly  bucked. 
Pound  the  garments,  Oh  washers, with  all  the  tierce  might  of  your  muscle, 

For  they  again  must  be  clean  ere  we  the  Muses  arise. 
Dash  them  and  drench  them  and  rinse  them  in  the  clear  depths  of  Castalia 

That  they  not  only  white  but  also  musical  be. 
Long  and  carelessly  have  they  been  worn,  until  the  white  drapery 

Seems  the  dress  of  despair,  rumpled  to  numberless  rucks. — 
So  I  look  at  the  washerwomen  there  wielding  the  beetle 

Pitiless  on  the  grim  tilth  with  irrepressible  brawn  ; 
These  are  now  the  true  nymphs  of  the  stream, full  of  anger  and  vengeance 

That  the  bright  robes  have  been  soiled  with  alt  the  dirt  of  the  earth. 
Many  a  feature  they  have  that  tells  of  their  pedigree  ancient, 

Still  their  limbs  are  undraped  as  in  the  ages  of  old; 
Full  the  bare  arms  arc  of  swift-sweeping,  merciless  tendon  and  muscle, 

And  there  peers  the  nude  thigh  from  the  short  kirtle  below  ; 
But  still  fuller  the  breasts  arc,  reflecting  their  dance  in  the  water. 

Softly  imparting  their  swell  to  the  white  folds  in  the  stream. 
Sad  necessity — nymphs  of  Castalia  transformed  into  .Avashcrs, 

Turned  to  Furies  of  thews,  forced  to  belabor  mere  tilth  ! 
But  for  the  festival  wait,  when  the  youths  shall  move  in  the  chorus, 

Then  the  glory  of  brawn  from  every  ruffle  Avill  gleam, 
And  the  folds  of  the  garments  antique  will  leap  in  their  splendor, 

For  once  more  they  are  new,  fresh  from  the  Muses'  clear  rill. 


Delphi.  35 

3. 

On  the  edge  of  the  chasm  behold  yon  child  in  the  distance 

Gathering  flowers  alone,  lost  in  the  joy  of  the  hours. 
With  its  own  sweet  thoughts  it  pleasantly  seems  to  be  sporting, 

As  it  doth  skip  round  the  rocks,  busy  from  blossom  to  bloom. 
While  I  look  at  its  play  I  feel  indefinable  longing, 

For  a  young  voice  I  can  hear  echoing  over  the  seas. 
Nearer  it  comes  to  the  perilous  edge  of  the  cliff— and  yet  nearer  : 

I  am  afraid  lest  it  fall — what  a  fierce  pang  in  my  breast ! 
Still  along  on  the  brink  of  the  chasm  in  peace  it  is  playing ; 

1  would  shout,  but  a  bridge  built  of  one  voice  can  not  reach. 
Now  it  sees  a  new  flower  inclining  just  over  the  margin 

With  a  cup  of  fresh  red  ;  thither  it  springs  and  bends 
Over  that  precipice  deep  of  hundreds  of  horrible  fathoms, 

Reaching  out  its  small  hand  for  the  bright  gem  of  the  cliff. 
Agony  gives  a  rude  wrench  to  the  heart— it  seizes  the  fancy  : 

See !  down,  down  the  child  falls  into  the  depths  with  a  plunge  ! 
Brains  are  dashed  on  the  rocks  that  bloodily  now  are  bespattered, 

Crushed  are  its  flesh  and  bones  to  an  indifferent  pulp  ; 
Red  with  the  stain  has  become  the  pure  flow  of  the  rill  of  Castalia, 

Its  white  pebbles  are  fouled  with  the  thick  blotches  of  blood. — 
Hold,  oh  Fancy,  for  thou  hast  defiled  the  stream  of  the  Muses, 

These  are  thine  own  ghastly  shows,  hideous  spectres  of  death, 
For  the  child  is  safe — now  it  runs  in  delight  up  the  hill-side 

Quite  away  from  the  brink  ;  also  the  flower  it  has, 
Which  along  with  a  nosegay  it  joyously  brings  to  its  father, 

3 


36  Delphi. 

• 
Who  in  an  Olive's  fresh  shade  rests  from  the  heat  of  the  day. 

Oh  grisly  Fancy,  Castalia  cannot  endure  thy  horrors, 

From  grim  phantoms  she  flees  back  to  her  cave  in  the  rocks. 
One  drop  of  scarlet  thrown  into  her  stream  will  stain  her  clear  waters; 

Stay  thy  sanguineous  hand,  smear  not  the  Muses  with  gore,  , 

For  the  white  folds  of  their  robes  most  quickly  will  show  the  dark 
blood-spot, 

So  that  the  Furies  they  seem,  not  the  mild  Goddesses,  bright 
With  these  rays  wherein  they  now  dwell  mid  choruses  happy, 

Herein  the  Delphian  world  ruled  from  Parnassian  tops. 
For  each  song  of  the  Sisters  is  closely  inwoven  of  sunshine, 

Every  note  is  a  joy  hymned  in  accord  with  the  beams. 
So  let  me  banish  forever  all  blood,  all  terror  and  darkness  : 

Only  with  Phoebus  henceforth  I  am  determined  to  dwell. 

4. 

At  the  waters  of  joyous  Castalia  I  met  an  old  woman, 

Often  she  crossed  herself  as  she  was  passing  the  brook ; 
From  her  lips  of  lean  wrinkles  darkly  she  muttered  a  prayer 

To  the  Saint  in  the  fount  where  the  bright  Muses  once  dwelt. 
I  must  acknowledge,  the  presence  here  of  that  weazen  old  woman, 

With  the  thought  of  that  Saint,  drove  all  the  Sisters  away, 
And  called  up  in  7iiy  soul  the  waters  of  bitter  resentment, 

So  that  my  Delphian  mood  nearly  was  drowned  in  their  surge. 
When  she  had  ended  her  prayer,  quickly  she  turned  and  addressed  me  : 

Why,  oh  stranger,  I  ask,  do  you  not  make  sacred  signs 
Of  the  Cross  on  your  breast  as  you  pass  St.  John's  holy  chapel  ? 


Delphi.  37 

Infidel  art  thou—  a  Turk— thus  t>  neglect  Christian  rites? 
Yes,  I  fear  it  is  true,  thy  belief  is  not  mine — I  answered  : 

In  my  heart  I  abhor  here  such  a  gesture  to  make, 
Or  now  even  to  think  of  the  Cross  with  its  horrible  torture  : 

Any  thought  of  the  kind  hurls  into  chaos  my  days. 
Here  at  Delphi  there  is  no  death — only  life  in  its  beauty — 

Save  the  death  through  that  Cross,  death  of  the  Muses  and  Gods, 
lam  one  with  the  Earth  now,  and  with  the  goodness  of  Mature, 

Simply  I  live  through  the  hours  filled  with  the  joy  of  her  strain ; 
After  this  life  I  think  not  of  realms  of  tumultuous  anguish; 

Nor  do  I  wish  for  myself  any  one's  death,  not  Christ's; 
Time  was  once  when  I  hoped  for  decease  or  desired  some  Redeemer 

For  me  to  die,  and  perchance  thus  to  relieve  me  of  pain; 
But  1  live  now  in  this  Delphian  sunshine,  I  sigh  for  no  Heaven, 

Mi- rely  I  wish  to  remain  blent  in  the  harmony  sweet 
That  doth  swell  from  the  two  great  worlds  without  and  within  me  : 

Double  that  chorus  of  worlds,  but  their  deep  music  is  one. 
Very  different  once,  it  is  true,  were  my  thoughts  and  my  feelings, 

And  again  they  may  change  in  the  still  beat  of  the  years. — 
I  do  not  think  the  old  woman  could  know  quite  what  I  was  saying, 

Still  I  continued  to  speak,  talking  perchance  to  myself: 
Do  not  suppose  that  harmonious  living  is  riot  a  religion, 

Though  it  be  not  thine  own,  though  too  its  source  be  remote. 
Like  some  melody  sweeter  by  distance,  the  old  Gods  of  Hellas 

Softly  arise  and  attune  to  a  new  concord  my  life, 
And  at  this  moment  thoy  are  commanding  most  deeply  my  worship; 

The  Castalian  nymphs,  too,  I  adore  from  my  soul, 


317125 


38  Delphi. 

And  far  above  all  others  I  daily  commune  with  Apollo, 

Who  still  loves  his  old  haunts,  though  he  unkinged  must  come. 
Look  up  yonder  at  Delphi — think  what  Apollo  once  made  it — 

For  he  made  it  the  soul  in  the  fair  body  of  Greece, 
And  he  decked  it  with  all  of  the  splendor  of  shrines  and  of  temples  : 

Look  at  it  now,  the  poor  clump — 'tis  the  abode  of  the  Saints. 
So,  good  woman,  to  these  do  not  ask  me  to  offer  devotion  ; 

Here  I  will  sec  the  old  Gods  as  they  once  reigned  from  these  heights. 

5. 
In  the  moonlight  yonder  uprises  to  heaven  Phloumbouki, 

All  alive  it  appears  under  the  beams  of  the  night ; 
Monsters  of  darkness  are  crawling  far  up  to  the  perch  of  its  summit, 

While  its  cavernous  sides  house  many  hideous  shapes. 
Not  for  the  world  would  I  enter  this  hour  the  gorge  of  Bagenyi, 

Out  of  fear  of  the  ghosts  which  there  abide  in  the  dark. 
Now  is  the  reign  of  Artemis,  sister  of  bright-faced  Apollo, 

But  the  clear  God  has  fled  from  the  dim  earth  and  its  nooks ; 
Men  are  asleep  until  his  return,  avoiding  the  Goddess, 

Not  a  fold  can  be  seen  in  the  faint  glimmer  of  rays ; 
Hushed  are  also  the  hymns  of  the  maidens,  the  children  of  sunshine, 

All  the  birds  are  at  rest,  save  the  dull  brooders  of  night. 
But  the  fantastic  huge  monsters  of  chaos  break  loose  from  the  mountain, 

Out  of  the  caverns  they  come  whither  they  fled  from  the  (Jod : 
For  the  sister,  though  gracious,  is  weak  and  can  not  control  them, 

Can  not  the  dragons  control  freed  from  the  light  of  the  sun. 
At  her  spell  the  whole  brcod  doth  seem  to  leap  forth  to  existence, 


Delphi.  39 

Under  her  smile  they  are  born,  born  in  her  mystical  beams. 
Oh  high  Apollo,  well  wert  thou  named  the  slayer  of  Python  ; 

The  huge  serpent  was  pierced  by  the  keen  arrow  shot* forth 
From  thy  bow  all  light;  of  old  it  was  slain  here  at  Delphi, 

And  this  rock  was  transformed  into  the  eye  of  the  world. 
Once  again,  oh  day-god,  place  on  the  bow-string  that  arrow, 

Slaughter  the  numberless  brood  which  has  been  reared  in  the  night, 
And  the  infinite  throng  of  phantasmas,  the  monster-begotten, 

Pierce — and  restore  thy  bright  reign  as  it  was  once  on  these  heights. 

6. 
On  this  hill-side  who  built  the  first  temple  to  far-darting  Phoebus  ? 

An  old  story  it  is,  ancient  is  too  the  dispute. 
Three  are  the  legends  which  are  now  gracefully  asking  our  credence  : 

Out  of  the  authors  of  old  let  them  with  prudence  be  scanned. 
This  is  the  first  report,  that  the  structure  was  built  of  the  laurel, 

Tree  of  Apollo's  love — whom  he  once  wooed  as  a  maid, 
Beautiful  Daphne,  changed  to  a  tree  and  then  wrought  to  a  temple : 

This  account  I  believe,  for  it  is  worthy  of  faith. 
J  myself  have  built  a  small  fane  out  of  leaflets  and  branches, 

In  it  I  sing  to  the  God  many  a  laurel-crowned  hymn, 
That  the  harmony-  sweet  of  the  Muses  may  float  in  his  presence  : 

There  he  gives  me  to  dwell  viewing  his  glorious  face. 
Then  the  second  report  of  it  comes,  and  this  I  must  tell  thee : 

It  was  built  by  the  bees,  architects  first  of  the  world, 
And  its  walls  they  made  of  their  cells,  and  the  mortar  was  honey, 

Sweetest  of  artists  they  build  all  of  their  instinct  to  form. 


40  Delphi. 

Then  they  filled  the  fair  home  of  Apollo  with  stores  from  the  flowers, 

So  that  the  dew  of  these  bees  sweetened  the  bread  of  mankind. 
Also  this  story  I  ean  not  deny,  for  I  ate  of  the  honey. 

And  the  same  structure  beheld  where  dear  Apollo  resides. 
Yet  the  third  account  too  I  believe — it  was  Imilded  by  Vulcan — 

On  the  Olympian  heights  fair  it  arose  in  his  shop. 
Many  a  line  can  be  seen  that  was  drawn  by  his  compass. 

All  the  stones  have  been  hewn  by  a  divinity's  skill, 
To  a  deep  subtle  music  taking  their  place  in  the  building, 

Chanting  when  they  arc  there  soft  unaccountable  hymns. 
.Round  this  fane  is  forever  reposing  a  chorus  of  sculpture. 

Forms  of  the  Gods  above,  copied  from  thence  into  stone  ; 
And  this  temple  entire  was  borne  down  to  men  from  Olympus. 

In  a  transport  divine  guided  by  Hermes  the  swift ; 
For  it  is  modeled,  they  say,  from  palaces  mighty  of  marble, 

"\Vhieh  there  repose  on  the  heights  in  a  perpetual  da}*, 
Reared  by  Vulcan  himself  when  he  built  the  Olympian  city 

For  the  bright  Gods  to  indwell ; — whence  they  come  down  to  our 

earth. 
All  the  reports  I  believe — all  three  are  worthy  of  credence — 

And  they  are  true  I  maintain,  if  thou  but  know  what  is  true. 

7. 
In  the  old  ages  was  Delphi  prophetic,  doubly  prophetic; 

Destiny  distant  it  showed  both  for  itself  and  the  world. 
What  it  to  others  in  vision  foretold  was  what  itself  suffered, 

Always  the  arrow  turned  back  into  itself  that  it  shot. 


Delphi.  41 

What  it  saw  in  the  sport  of  the  hours,  was  but  its  own  image, 

For  in  its  soul  was  the  type  of  the  Great  One  and  the  All. 
So  in  revealing  itselfj  it  the  universe  ever  revealed — 

What  else  could  it  declare  but  what  it  had  in  itself? 
Such  is  the  prophet,  alas !  and  such  is  the  painful  prediction, 

'Gainst  his  own  heart  he  directs  what  he  presages  to  man, 
For  he  too  is  a  man.     When  beautiful  Hellas  in  passion 

Turned  against  its  dear  self  arms  that  were  meant  for  its  foe, 
So  too  Delphi  was  turned,  of  its  own  foreknowledge  the  victim, 

For  it  also  was  Greek  and  was  involved  in  the  doom. 
That  irreversible  word  which  was  uttered  by  priestess  enraptured, 

Held  the  dim  fate  of  herself,  also  the  fate  of  the  lane ; 
She  was  rent  in  her  soul  by  the  might  of  the  same  strong  convulsion 

Which  she  saw  in  the  land,  since  it  lay  too  in  herself. 
Brother  was  turned  against  brother  and  Delphi  was  turned  against 

Delphi- 
Then  fair  Hellas  was  lost — Delphi  the  seeress  was  lost. 
Look  at  these  ruins  which  peep  here — they  lay  in  the  foresight  of  Delphi, 

Still  she  could  not  escape  what  she  so  clearly  foresaw  ; 
Nor  yet  could  she  by  silence  avoid  her  dolorous  duty  : 

When  to  be  prophet  she  ceased,  then  she  had  ceased  to  be. 
Strange  is,  oh  prophet,  thy  lot, — what  thou  seest  and  sayest  to  others 

Is  but  thyself  and  thy  fate  which  thou  behold'st  in  the  Hours. 


It  is  night.     From  below  to  the  highest  Delphian  summits 
Darkness  covers  the  earth,  Silence  has  opened  her  reign. 


42  Delphi. 

No  one  would  say  that  here  was  once  the  bright  home  of  Apollo, 

So  completely  extinct  are  all  the  beams  of  his  face. 
Yet  behold  a  single  dim  light  far  off  in  the  valley, 

Where  the  Olives  are — what  can  it  mean,  do  yon  think  ? 
'Tis  the  camp-fire  lit  by  a  shepherd — Wallachian  shepherd, 

Who  sojourns  for  a  time  that  he  may  pasture  his  flock 
On  the  thyme  that  sprouts  in  the  spring  from  the  sides  of  Parnassus  : 

Stranger  he  comes  from  afar,  seeking  the  fragrant  herbs. 
That  small  light  with  its  rays  bores  a  hole  through  the  darkness  to 

Delphi 

*    Till  it  reaches  the  eye;  by  it  white  fragments  I  see 
Faintly  trying  to  send  some  gleam  of  their  ancient  perfection 

As  they  peer  out  at  my  feet,  with  their  bright  smile  bi'oke  in  twain. 
Here  the  shepherd  remains  for  the  festival  fair  of  the  spring-tide 

And  on  the  slant  of  the  hills  mingles  his  herd  with  the  flowers. 
But  when  the  summer  has  come  he  flies  to  his  home  in  the  mountains 

Toward  the  distant  North,  shunning  the  rage  of  the  Dog. 
There  he  recounts  to  his  rustic  neighbors  who  gather  around  him, 

What  he  has  seen  far  away — wonders  of  climate  and  sk}-, 
Wonders  of  ruins  festooned  with  many  a  song  and  story, 

Dowered  with  magical  spell  by  the  weird  hand  of  a  God. 
Notice  his  light,  how  it  shimmers  across  the  waves  of  the  darkness ! 

Now  it  doth  seem  to  go  out;  now  it  doth  flicker  anew 
Dimly,  as  if  'twere  a  beacon  tossing  about  on  the  ocean ; 

Now  a  blaze  it  sends  up  flashing  the  tips  of  the  cliff's. 
Yet  all  alone  it  shines  in  the  valley — no  other  shepherd 

Hither  has  come  from  abroad  for  the  Parnassian  food. 


Delphi.  43 

But  I  can  see  in  that  flamelet,  though  distant,  the  Olives  rejoicing, 

Its  small  glow  they  feel  like  the  approach  of  the  dawn  ; 
Also  Castalia  leaps  in  its  light  with  a  fresh  laugh  of  gladness, 

As  her  diamonds  are  lit  by  a  soft  ray  in  the  night. 
Still  'tis  only  a  wandering  flash  by  a  stranger  enkindled, 

Throwing  its  sheen  for  a  time  over  the  village  and  hills ; 
He  will  sojourn  in  the  valley  merely  along  with  the  flowers, 

Then  for  his  home  he  departs  j  with  many  yeanlings  increased 
Is  his  herd,  and  is  fed  to  sleek  fatness  on  thyme  of  Parnassus ; 

Fragrance  also  is  borne  from  the  sweet  flowers  and  herbs. 
So  the  rude  shepherd — the  distant  Wallachian  shepherd, 

Builds  a  small  camp-fire  here  where  was  the  Muses'  abode. 


Book  Second. 


|i  the.  |j 

•j  .; 


CYCLET  FIRST. 
1. 

IN  lair  Hellas  there  grow  many  joyous  young  sprouts,  but  the  Olive 

Was  the  first  love  of  my  heart,  and  will  remain  the  last. 
See  how  it  shoots  up  there  on  the  hill-side  and  in  the  valley ! 

Youth  is  the  name  of  that  tree,  beauty  its  form  and  its  life. 
Softly  it  waves  in  the  wind  that  comes  like  a  breath  from  Parnassus — 

Wind  sweetly  tuned  in  the  twigs,  sent  from  the  heights  by  a  Muse, 
Who  outpours  her  melodious  tones  in  the  rustle  of  branches, 

And  i inbreathes  all  her  grace  on  the  young  leaves  in  the  dance. 
So  each  tree,  each  leaflet  doth  move  in  the  merriest  humor, 

Yet  they  all  move  at  once,  forming  a  chorus  of  joy 
Over  the  fields,  far  down  through  the  vale,  to  the  limit  of  vision, 

Turning  their  silver-green  robes  to  the  mild  sway  of  the  breeze. 
Everywhere  on  the  branches  there  hang  multitudinous  berries, 

All  in  a  laugh  and  a  dance  with  the  gay  leaves  and  the  limbs. 
Some  are  ripe  with  dark-brown  visage,  and  ready  to  gather, 

Often  they  fall  of  themselves  into  the  lap  of  the  earth  ; 
Others  are  young,  quite  young,  and  still  cling  to  the  arms  of  the  mother, 

Though  their  cheeks  have  a  flush,  turning  to  blushes  of  love. 
Why  do  the  Olives  rejoice  so  ?  Unaer  them  are  the  Parnassian  maidens, 

Wafted  b}~  thoughts  of  the  dance  like  the  light  leaves  of  the  tree 
In  the  wind.   The  fruit  from  the  ground  and  the  branches  they  gather — 


48  In  the  01  i rex. 

Fairest  fruit  themselves,  tinted  by  airs  from  the  hills — 
All  with  fluttering  hearts,  as  they  think  of  the  chorus  to-morrow, 
For  then  a  festival  is,  with  the  bright  dance  at  the  trees. 

2. 

What  a  choir  of  birds  I  hear  as  I  pass  through  the  Olives  ! 

Spring  has  just  come  down  the  vaie,  now  it  is  tuning  all  throats. 
Each  glad  songster  doth  seem  in  this  grove  his  voice  to  be  testing 

On  the  sunny  bland  air  made  for  the  note  of  the  heart. 
Thousandfold  are  the  tones  that  through  one  another  are  darting, 

Winding  around  in  soft  turns;  tender  with  love  they  embrace. 
Yet  the  whole  orchestra  deeply  to  one  limpid  note  is  attuned. 

Though  some  discords  may  rise  o'er  the  clear  lake  of  the  sound. 
What  is  the  strain  that  they  carol  ?    List,  till  we  catch  its  fine  pulses — 

'Tis  the  gladness  of  youth  throbbing  in  hymns  at  the  spring. 
Thousands  are  also  the  songsters  mid  the  new  leaves  of  the  branches, 

Each  one  piping  his  best,  each  with  some  trill  of  his  own. 
Some  have  a  loud  full  voice  heard  afar,  but  it  has  little  beauty, 

Some  have  a  small  low  note,  but  it  ot  sweetness  is  full ; 
Some  utter  sounds  that  ferociously  hiss  with  the  hiss  of  a  serpent, 

Even  the  sound  will  bite  though  but  of  air  be  its  fangs  : 
Some  are  old,  going  back  in  their  strain  to  the  ages  heroic : 

Oft  deep  voices  I  hear,  chanting,  I  fancy,  of  Troy. 
Some  are  young,  just  fledged,  and  can  not  yet  fly  from  the  branches, 

Or  if  they  did  seek  to  fly,  down  they  would  flutter  to  earth. 
Still  they  all  sang — the  Greek  songsters — sang  in  melodious  measures, 

Though  there  were  many  engulphed  in  the  grand  swell  of  the  whole. 


In  the  Olives.  49 

Each  seemed  trying  to  drown  all  the  others  in  oceans  of  music  : 

But  I  could  hear  one  voice  sweeter  than  all  the  rest 
And  much* stronger;  for  in  some  of  its  notes  it  rang  like  a  bugle, 

Then  it  would  melt  in  its  strain  till  the  soul  gushed  at  the  eye. 
So  they  continued  to  sing — that  tuneful  Parnassian  army, 

Mid  the  poetical  leaves  adding  their  sparkle  to  song. 
What  are  the  songsters  trying  to  do  ?     As  I  think,  I  shall  tell  thee — 

They  are  trying  to  win  places  of  perch  in  this  grove, 
That  they  forever  may  dwell  in  the  glittering  palace  of  Olives, 

And  be  heard  of  all  men,  haply,  who  stroll  through  the  trees. 
Often  concealed  from  the  eye  they  are  chanting  melodious  roundels  j 

On  the  dark  berries  they  feast,  nourishment  rich  for  the  song. 
All  are  my  joy,  both  the  broad-winged  poets  and  pin-feathered  nurse 
lings, 

For  each  one  of  them  sips  music  and  mirth  from  the  clime. 
I  too  am  going  to  stretch  out  my  wings  and  hop  in  the  branches, 

Also  my  throat  I  shall  tune  though  it  should  fright  all  the  grove. 

3. 
Hear  the  glad  voices  that  pass  down  the  Delphian  way  in  the  morning  I 

"Who  are  these  people  ?  I  ask, — why  do  they  sing  on  the  road  ? 
Pickers  of  Olives  they  are,  now  hastening  into  the  orchards 

Where  yon  silvery  creek  spans  with  its  girdle  the  dale. 
All  day  long  they  must  stoop,  still  joyously  chant  they  a  ditty, 

As  the}'  pick,  one  by  one,  berries  that  lie  on  the  ground. 
Toilsome  yet  merry  the  task  is,  since  labor  is  seasoned  with  gladness, 

So  they  love  their  fatigue,  for  'tis  the  food  of  their  mirth. 


50  In  the  Olives. 

Thus  they  sing  as  they  toil,  and  they  mid  the  Olives  are  happy, 

Ere  the  Parnassian  tops  yet  have  been  clomb  by  the  sun  ; 
Maidens  are  most  of  them  singing  along  with  the  birds  before  sunrise, 

While  the  long  shades  of  the  hills  stretch  from  the  East  down  the 

vale. 
Just  where  the  road  is  crossed  by  the  runnel  my  stand  I  have  taken  : 

There  the  paths  from  the  town  all  come  together  in  one  ; 
There  I  look  at  the  merry  young  throng  and  receive  friendly  greeting 

From  cerulean  eyes  set  in  a  frame  of  gold  hair. 
The  fresh  hummers  continue  to  pour  from  the  hives  of  the  village 

For  an  hour  or  two;  each  in  mine  eye  drops  a  smile, 
That  is  shed  from  the  lips  as  invisible  dew  of  the  Graces; 

'Tis  their  alms  to  my  heart,  which  a  poor  pilgrim  has  come. 
Still  the  one  has  not  passed  yet,  the  right  one;  impatient  I  loiter 

Till  she  arrive  from  the  heights,  winged  as  a  sweet  morning  dream. 
To  her  glance  I  am  bound,  and  by  it  am  borne  to  the  Olives, 

There  now  with  it  I  sport,  happy  the  rest  of  the  day. 

4. 

List  to  yon  maid  who  is  singing  far  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain, 

Where  the  vineyards  hang,  slanting  adown  with  the  steep; 
All  alone  she  works,  and  a  hymn  she  attunes  to  her  labor, 

While  she  is  trimming  the  vines  for  the  bright  nectar  of  Fall ; 
Scarce  her  shape  can  I  see,  but  her  voice  rings  over  the  valley., 

Wafting  its  notes  through  the  air,  till  they  rebound  from  the  hills 
That  lie  opposite  ;  then,  most  lightly  they  fall  to  the  Olives 

Where  underneath  the  young  trees  hundreds  of  maidenly  hands 


In  the  Olives.  51 

Are  now  busy — busy  in  picking  the  harvest  of  berries  ; 

Though  they  are  hid  by  the  leaves,  still  I  well  know  they  are  there. 
Hark!  it  is  the  response;    not  unheard  have  the  notes  of  the  maiden 

Fallen  into  that  grove;  list  to  the  echo  from  thence. 
For  from  the  trees  another  refrain  swells  up  to  the  mountain  ; 

Many  voices  there  are,  melted  by  distance  to  one. 
Resonant,  clear  and  full  is  the  strain  from  the  Olives  ascending, 

And  it  responds  to  the  first  with  a  deep  fervor  of  song. 
What  are  they  singing  of?     Love — the  oneness  of  man  and  of  woman; 

Mouths  by  nature  are  twain,  but  the  fond  kiss  makes  them  one; 
Two  pair.s  of  eyes  with  one  glance,  and  two  pairs  of  lips  with  one 
promise — 

And  in  the  breasts  of  the  two  one  happy  heart  with  its  throb. 
Let  the  bodies  be  double,  within  them  is  only  one  feeling; 

Voices  may  also  be  twain,  but  the  sweet  song  makes  them  one. 
Love  has  transmuted  into  one  harmony  both  of  these  echoes, 

Swift-winged  Eros  now  sweeps  over  the  mountain  and  vale. 
Thus  the  vineyard  answers  the  Olives,  the  Olives  the  vineyard; 

Though  far  asunder  in  space,  both  have  one  passionate  strain. 

5. 
In  the  new  rays  of  the  morning  I  walk  to  the  Delphian  Olives 

That  are  strown  on  the  hill  warm  with  the  love  of  the  sun ; 
Far  down  the  valley  they  reach  to  the  crystalline  ripple  of  Pleistus, 

"Whose  slender  form  they  embrace  in  a  soft  forest  of  limbs. 
Mild  is  the  breath  of  the  wind  that  sets  all  the  branches  in  motion, 
While  the  green  wavelets  of  leaves  roll  down  the  sides  of  the  mount. 

4 


62  In  the  Olives. 

Thither  I  turn  my  wandering  steps  in  search  of  a  maiden, 

Whom  this  morn  I  beheld  there  as  I  entered  the  trees; 
Whom  before  I  had  seen  in  my  dreams  as  a  vision  of  beauty, 

Now  the  dim  shadow  is  filled  with  the  fresh  fullness  of  life. 
'Twas  a  form  that  alwaj'S  would  draw  the  eye  of  a  stranger, 

Who  to  Parnassus  had  come  seeking  the  face  of  a  maid 
That  had  haunted  his  fancy  from  youth  in  all  his  high  moments, 

To  him  had  spoken  perchance  in  his  most  rapturous  mood. 
Passing  the  fount  of  the  Muses  she  sped  from  the  heights  of  the  village, 

Seemed  on  the  air  to  uprise,  when  her  swift  features  I  spied ; 
As  on  a  picture  above  me  I  gazed  at  the  beautiful  image ; 

All  of  me  changed  to  a  hope  which  she  most  sweetly  returned. 
In  the  glint  of  her  eyes  I  beheld  waving  torches  of  Eros 

Who  before  Helen's  look  flew  and  enkindled  the  air. 
One  more  glance  she  threw  back  at  me  just  as  she  entered  the  Olives, 

Then  disappeared  in  the  leaves  as  a  bright  dream  in  the  clouds  ; 
Now  I  must  follow  her  footsteps  till  perchance  I  ma}'  find  her, 

For  some  priestess  she  was  once  when  Apollo  here  ruled. 


6. 

As  I  stray  round  the  hills  through   the  Olives,  soon  I  groAV  thirsty, 
And  this  thirst  is  so  sharp  that  it  cuts  down  to  my  soul. 

So  I  seek  for  a  spring  which  will  cool  the  throbs  of  my  fever  : 
Here  is  a  basin  of  stone  filled  with  a  crystalline  draught. 

Deftly  the  rock  has  been  hewn  to  receive  the  rill  of  the  mountain, 
Which  transparently  rests  in  the  embrace  of  the  moss ; 


In  ihe  Olives.  53 

And  a  small  groove  has  been  scratched  in  the  stone  for  the  fall  of 
the  water, 

Thence  down  the  side  of  the  rock  trickles  the  thirst-quenching  stream. 
Two  little  lips  it  doth  fashion  through  which  the  runnel  is  gliding, 

Just  where  the  drops  with  a  laugh  over  the  brim  give  a  leap, 
And  the  stranger  they  gently  invite  to  their  pearls  with  a  babble, 

Promising  kisses  of  joy  to  every  one  of  his  sips. 
The  fond  brooklet  has  wound  its  way  down  from  Parnassian  summits, 

Bringing  along  in  its  breast  all  the  fresh  breath  of  the  Spring — 
Whispering  many  a  hymn  from  above  on  the  brink  in  its  passage : 

'Tis  impregnated  still  with  the  low  note  of  the  Muse. 
So  I  lean  down  on  the  sedge  and  lay  my  mouth  to  the  crystal, 

Touch  the  sweet  lips  of  the  stream  while  of  another  I  think. 
But  this  stone — look  how  it  is  worn — worn  off  with  the  kisses 

Which  the  passers  have  laid,  ages  on  ages  before. 
Still  the  musical  burn  unceasing  flows  down  from  the  mountain, 

Still  the  lips  in  the  rock  are  just  as  fresh  as  of  yore. 
Now  every  day  for  my  walk  I  go  by  the  rill  in  the  Olives, 

Held  as  I  saunter  along  in  the  soft  arms  of  a  Muse: 
Then  when  I  drink,  I  fervently  press  those  lips  of  the  brooklet, 

While  I  list  to  the  hymn  sung  in  its  dance  down  the  hill.  — . 

Draught  of  Parnassus — what  could  I  do  but  join  in  the  music  ? 

So  I  in  unison  chant,  tuning  my  voice  to  the  stream. 

7. 

Many  an  hour  1  wander  amid  the  vast  orchard  of  Olives, 
Gaze  at  the  sparkle  of  leaves  silvering  over  the  hills ; 


54  In  the 

Even  the  branches  I  love  as  they  rollick  and  laugh  in  the  sunbeams, 

And  their  gay  humor  instil  into  each  throb  of  the  heart. 
Under  the  trees  1  stop  wherever  a  maiden  is  working, 

Furtive  glances  I  cast  into  the  path  of  her  eye, 

That  she  may  see  them  and  with  them  perchance  she  may  covertly 
dally: 

Then  I  pass  on  in  my  search  for  'tis  another  I  seek. 
Long  I  hunt,  deceived  in  my  way  by  fantastic  vain  glimmers, 

Often  I  stray  from  the  road,  often  I  think  of  return. 
But  at  last  I  discover  the  form  that  imbreathes  all  my  fancies ; 

Deep  in  the  grove  she  is  hid  where  but  few  strangers  approach. 
Great  is  my  joy;   she  knows  too  my  face  from  the  morn  when  she 
saw  me 

At  the  Castalian  rill,  bent  o'er  the  stream  for  a  drink. 
At  the  exchange  of  a  look  I  begin  to  gather  the  Olives 

Scattered  there  under  the  trees — such  was  her  laughing  command ; 
I,  the  servant  of  Eros,  now  find  it  the  sweetest  of  labor 

When  I  stoop  to  the  ground,  thence  to  collect  the  rich  fruit ; 
And  my  delight  is  to  heap  in  the  basket  which  is  the  Greek  maiden's 

All  of  the  Olives  I  pick,  passing  the  day  in  fond  toil. 
One  subtle  ray  from  her  eye  overflows  me  with  beautiful  visions; 

All  the  pay  that  I  ask  is  but  to  look  in  her  face. 

8. 
Man}T  the  paths  are  that  lead  from  the  village  down  to  the  Olives, 

All  directions  they  branch,  winding  amid  the  dense  trees. 
This  is  the  first  one — it  goes  direct  to  the  ancient  Metochi, 


In  the  Olives.  55 

Where  the  monks  have  their  home  in  a  low  cloister  of  gloom. 
Gentle  and  good  are  these  men,  they  have  breathed  all  their  days  into 
prayer, 

All  their  thoughts  rise  above,  shunning  the  Olives  below 
Where  are  the  maids.     From  the  hill  I  look  at  the  roof  of  the  cloister, 

As  it  peacefully  lies  in  the  embrace  of  the  leaves; 
But  this  path  I  avoid  as  if  mid  its  rocks  dwelt  a  dragon 

Snapping  its  jaws  in  my  face.     So  1  pass  on  to  the  next 
Which  is  the  second,  and  leads  to  the  mill  that  presses  the  berries, 

Where  only  men  are  at  work,  making  the  sweet- flavored  oil. 
Clear  is  the  flow  of  the  brook  through  the  moss  to  the  whirl  of  the  mill- 
wheel, 

Friendly  the  look  of  the  men  seeing  the  stranger  appear. 
But  not  the  flow  of  the  brook  with  its  babble  along  the  fresh  channel, 

Not  the  old  rustic  mill,  not  the  kind  welcome  of  men 
Can  detain  me  from  this  path — the  third  one  that  leads  to  the  Olives 

Down  in  the  valley  below  whither  the  maidens  have  gone. 
There  at  times  I  can  see,  as  it  flits  mid  the  trees  a  red  apron, 

Like  a  small  tongue  of  flame  leaping  in  folds  from  the  ground; 
Or  perchance  in  a  flutter  of  wind  I  behold  the  white  garment, 

As  it  seemeth  to  fly,  winged  with  a  pinion  of  red ; 
For  it  appears  in  the  distance  some  bird  of  gracefullest  plumage, 

Crimson  doth  flow  down  its  breast,  snow  doth  reflect  from  its  back. 
Then,  oh  hear,  that  merry  bright  bird  with  song  too  is  gifted, 

Now  in  the  Olives  it  sings  notes  that  well  out  of  the  trees 
Wave  after  wave,  until  they  flow  over  me  up  to  the  hill-tops  : 

Undulations  of  hymns  thrilled  from  a  joyous  young  heart. 


56  In  the  Olives. 

This  is  the  path  I  am  led  in  by  Eros  unerring,  my  master — 
Down  to  the  Olives  I  go,  down  to  the  Olives  I  go. 

9. 

Ah  I  confess,  the  Metochi  I  shun — the  place  of  calm  prayer, 

Lapped  in  eternal  repose  mid  the  soft  plies  of  the  limbs, 
Placid  it  rests  as  if  now  in  Heaven.     Old  are  the  Olives 

That  around  it  have  grown — sentinels  faithful  and  fond, 
Though  their  trunks,  so  twisted  and  scarred,  have  lost  their  fresh  juices 

Not  a  maid  can  be  found  who  will  delay  in  their  shade ; 
Into  the  valley  below  they  look,  where  sprout  the  young  Olives, 

With  a  mild  disdain  from  the  high  perch  of  their  site. 
Holy  the  men  are  who  dwell  there,  devoted  to  prayer  incessant ; 

Every  moment  they  turn  into  the  notes  of  a  psalm 
That  like  incense  sweet  rises  up  from  their  cells  into  Heaven  : 

Now  their  low  chant  I  can  hear  from  the  small  chapel  of  Saints, 
Gently  accusing  me  thence  for  my  sins.     Shall  I  enter  the  chapel  ? 

No — Eros  now  is  my  God,  here  I  am  tied  to  his  wings  ; 
He  has  my  soul  and  has  flown  long  before  me  far  down  to  the  valley 

Where  the  young  Olives  are,  glorious  sprouts  of  the  Earth, 
That  are  leaping  in  sunlight  away  from  the  gloomy  Metochi — 

Each  little  leaf  on  its  twig  sings  a  small  poem  of  love. 
What  will  boot  all  my  prayers,  without  any  soul  ?     Let  me  tell  the'e, 

Body  must  follow  the  soul — down  to  the  Olives  I  go. 


In  the  Olives.  57 


CYCLET  SECOND. 
I. 

In  the  hut  I  stopped  where  Philemon  dwelt  with  his  Baucis, 

Aged  they  were  and  infirm,  still  they  were  living  alone ; 
Happy  their  days  sped  along  like  the  mellowest  hours  of  autumn, — 

Hazy  and  dim  to  the  sight,  yet  they  of  sunshine  are  full. 
Love  is  here  seen  in  its  purity,  cleansed  from  the  dross  of  its  passion, 

Though  the  senses  subside,  still  it  'remains  in  its  glow ; 
And  it  often  doth  seem  in  the  soul  to  redouble  its  fervor, 

Love  of  Psyche  it  is,  bodiless  spirit  divine. 
Long  they  together  have  lived  till  each  resembles  the  other, 

Time  has  them  moulded  to  one  till  they  no  longer  need  speech ; 
Each  doth  feel  as  the  other,  each  doth  think  as  the  other, 

Though  the  hearts  may  be  twain,  still  there  is  felt  but  one  pulse. 
Always  they  go  down  together  at  sunrise  into  the  Olives, 

There  they  remain  all  the  day,  culling  the  fruit  at  their  ease  ; 
Then  at  eve  they  return  to  their  home  of  delight  in  the  cabin, 

Sweetly  they  lie  down  to  rest,  labor  and  years  give  repose ; 
And  in  the  trance  of  the  night,  in  the  spell  that  is  wrought  by  soft 
slumber, 

Both  are  caressed  by  one  song,  both  of  them  have  the  same  dream. 
Aged  Olives  they  are  and  wrinkled — but  notice  them  closely : 

All  the  year  round  on  the  twigs  blossoms  are  bursting  to  light. 


58  In  the  Olive». 

So  may  I  be  when  Time  has  crowned  me  with  garlands  of  silver, 
Though  he  bend  the  old  trunk,  still  it  shall  flower  anew. 

Yet  in  my  heart  I  would  rather  remain  the  young  tree  of  the  orchard 
Bound  which  the  maidens  will  dance  with  the  fresh  rose  in  their 
cheeks. 

2. 

Look  at  yon  crow  as  he  skims  through  the  sunshine  over  the  treetops 

'Tis  a  dark  spot  with  wings  playing  mid  beams  of  mild  light. 
How  he  rejoices  to  sport  all  the  day  in  etherial  splendor, 

Though  each  feather  be  dipped  in  the  grave  color  of  night ! 
List  to  his  note :  Cluck,  cluck — through  the  hills  re-echoing  deeply, 

Like  the  low  hollow  sound  from  two  quick  blows  on  a  drum. 
Down  the  vale  he  flies,  to  a  dot  soon  shrinking  by  distance  : 

Still  his  voice  can  be  heard  from  the  black  speck  in  the  sky. 
Where  is  he  going,  I  wonder  ?  Cluck,  cluck — see  now  he  is  sinking 

Down  to  the  orchard  below  where  his  dark  spouse  he  beholds 
Sitting  expectant,  alone,  on  the  lusty  young  branch  of  an  Olive ; 

Thence  too  her  cluck  can  be  heard,  clucking  her  ebony  lord. 
That  hoarse  caw  was  the  note, warm  and  tender,  of  love — of  the  crow's 
love : 

Now  he  vaults  to  the  twigs  that  to  soft  dalliance  bid. 
There  is  the  silver-green  sparkle  of  leaves,  like  the  laughter  of  waters, 

There  are  the  maids  underneath  tuning  their  throats  for  the  hymn"; 
Thither  too  I  must  go;  Cluck,  cluck — the  crow  I  must  follow, 
Clucking  me  down  to  the  ti-ees  that  so  much  music  conceal. 


fn  the  Olives.  59 

3. 
I  had  wound  many  hours  through  tortuous  paths  in  the  Olives, 

Wasting  the  minutes  with  joys  under  the  laugh  of  the  leaves, 
When  not  far  from  Arachoba,  town  of  the  beautiful  women, 

Pearly  a  fountain  sprang  out  just  at  the  edge  of  the  road; 
In  the  stream,  as  it  gently  flowed  over  pebbles,  stood  washers — 

Fifty  maidens  or  more  who  from  the  village  had  come. 
Fair  was  the  vision  to  fall  in  the  eye  of  the  way-worn  stranger, 

Healing  the  journey's  fatigue  more  than  a  bath  in  the  brook. 
There  I  stopped  on  the  bank  and  watched  the  harmonious  movement 

Flowing  in  glee  out  of  forms  tuned  to  a  rhythm  unheard. 
In  that  crystalline  water  stood  many  a  Phidian  model — 

Many  a  snow-white  limb  dimpled  to  folds  by  the  waves; 
And  they  seemed  as  if  all  were  begotten  of  antique  sculpture, 

Which  an  artist  of  old  once  may  have  wrought  on  these  hills, 
Or  were  the  daughters  breathed  into  life  by  some  ancient  poet, 

As  in  his  rapture  he  sang  over  these  valleys  his  strain. 
Naked  the  hinge  of  the  knee  is,  and  naked  the  white  is  above  it, 

While  the  pale  modest  thigh  hides  in  the  kirtle  for  shame ; 
And  the  waters  are  whirled  in  a  fit  of  supreme  exaltation, 

As  the  tremulous  rill  leaps  round  the  ankles  below; 
Arms  are  bared  to  the  shoulder  while  hands  are  in  play  with  the 
streamlet, 

Round  the  loose  garment  a  zone  hardly  restrains  the  coy  dance 
Of  those  fair  twin  sisters  that  ride  on  the  swell  of  the  bosom : 

Thus  in  that  gallery  new  wander  I  long  and  reflect. 


60  In  the  Olives. 

From  the  brink  I  touch  with  mine  eye  each  turn  of  their  members, 

Drink  the  Olympian  draughts  which  are  distilled  from  their  forms. 
This  is  my  wish :  That  I  were  but  one  little  drop  of  the  brooklet, 

That  I  might  innocent  play  round  the  domains  of  their  wealth. 
And  unsuspected  might  brush  in  my  sportiveness  o'er  the  white  sur 
face  : 

Now  'tis  the  beautiful  world  wholly  forbidden  to  touch. 
But  the  eye  must  select — it  rests  on  a  deep-bosomed  maiden, 

Wound  are  the  strands  of  her  hair  into  long  tresses  of  gold, 
Freely  they  fall  down  her  neck  and  drop  at  her  side  to  the  water, 

Bushy  tips  of  the  braid  lave  in  the  sport  of  the  rill. 
Then  she  stands  in  the  crystal,  intent  on  the  glow  of  a  garment, 

Phoustanella  'tis  called,  ruffled  to  many  a  ply  j 
Even  the  folds  sing  a  strain  in  the  dexterous  hand  of  the  maiden, 

Falling  in  graceful  grooves  as  they  grow  white  at  her  touch. 
When  from  the  bank-I  addressed  her,  she  turned  her  face  from  the 
fountain, 

Wrapped  me  in  eyes  of  soft  blue,  gently  caressing  with  looks 
That  I  thought  1  was  borne  in  a  dream  to  the  blue  dome  of  Heaven  : 

"Give  me  that  vestment,"  I  cried,  "long  have  I  sought  srfch  a  garb  ; 
Shining  reward  I  shall  give  thee  if  I  can  now  but  possess  it, 

If  the  white  folds  shall  be  mine  trained  to  the  skill  of  thy  hand. 
For  my  body  I  long  to  enwrap  in  the  waves  of  their  music, 

And  my  soul  to  attune  unto  their  rhythmical  flow, 
Maid  of  Arachoba,  thine  is  the  handy-work  which  I  shall  treasure — 
It  I  intend  to  transfer  over  the  sea  to  my  home." 


In  the  Olives. 


4. 

I  had  intended  to  stop  making  Delphian  hymns  on  the  washers, 

But  when  I  see  them  at  work,  I  cannot  bridle  my  verse. 
In  the  bare  limb  and  its  movement  of  grace  there  is  soft  attraction : 

It  is  Avicked,  they  say,  still  1  delight  in  these  shapes. 
If  I  now  were  at  home,  I  would  shun  them  for  moral  example, 

And  my  head  I  would  turn  quickly  a  different  way 
When  I  saw  them ;  but  here  propriety  slightly  may  slacken, 

Xo  staid  dame  me  beholds — let  me  indulge  then  mine  eye. 
Hundreds  of  washers  there  are,  now  standing  by  groups  in  the  water, 

Swashing  the  garments  about  in  the  clear  flow  of  the  rill. 
What -a  clatter  of  tongues  amid  gay  laughter  and  gossip  ! 

All  the  love  in  the  town  now  is  discussed  and  much  more. 
Out  of  the  hundreds  one  I  select,  altogether  the  fairest, 

For  without  just  the  one,  hundreds  and  hundreds  were  none. 
Thither  I  loiter  and  stop  on  the  brink  of  the  brook  where  she  washes, 

Quickly  she  takes  up  a  cup,  goes  to  the  head  of  the  spring, 
Where  the  gush  of  the  crystalline  water  first  leaps  to  the  sunlight: 

To  me  she  offers  a  drink  with  a  sweet  welcome  of  words. 
But  an  old  crone  beside  her  me  asks  the  ridiculous  question — 

Art  thou  married  or  not — stranger,  at  home  hast  a  wife? 
To  your  question,  said  I,  in  this  presence  there  is  but  one  answer : 

Xot  a  man  would  confess  though  a  new  bride  he  have  led 
Xot  an  hour  ago  from  the  church  ;  indeed  I  am  certain, 
a  man  would  confess  that  he  before  ever  loved. 


62  In  the  Olives. 

Then  I  threw  in  the  face  of  the  maiden  a  small  jet  of  water 

To  whose  droplets  my  lips  just  had  been  fervently  touched. 
Thus  I  secretly  sent  her  a  kiss  in  the  dash  of  the  crystal — 

How  all  the  washers  there  laughed,  hundreds  were  laughing  at  me. 
Yet  the  .maid  was  not  angry  but  asked  me  :  Hast  a  mantili  ? 

Give  it  into  my  hand — let  me  but  wash  it  for  thee. 
So  I  reached  her  my  handkerchief  soiled  with  the  sweat  of  the  journey ; 

Under  her  touch  it  was  changed  into  a  pearl  of  the  rill, 
And  in  the  sun  she  outstretched  it  on  a  Parnassian  laurel 

Till  my  mantili  was  filled  with  high  Apollo's  mild  glow. 
That  is  a  glorious  prize, — a  handkerchief  full  of  glad  sunshine ; 

'Now  1  can  wipe  from  my  brow  all  my  vexation  and  toil. — 
Long  I  sat  on  a  stone  and  looked  at  the  joy  of  her  motions, 

While  she  was  working  for  me  with  a  sweet  thought  on  her  face. 
But  that  maiden  was  washing  something  beside  my  mantili, 

In  her  glances  she  laved  every  quick  throb  of  my  heart; 
And  with  the  beams  of  her  face  she  filled  each  nook  of  my  bosom, 

So  that  I  carry  them  there  with  her  fair  picture  enshrined. 

5. 
See  yon  eagle,  how  proudly  he  sails  round  the  crags  of  the  mountain ! 

Tawny  and  dark  is  his  suit,  stretched  are  his  talons  and  beak, 
And  his  eye  fiercely  glistens  afar,  throwing  fiery  glances 

Down  to  the  Oli\7es  beneath, — what  can  he  mean,  do  you  think  ? 
Prey — for  into  the  silver-green  orchard  comes  the  shy  pheasant, 

That  it  may  warily  taste  there  a  delicious  repast. 
So  in  innocence  sweetly  it  feasts  and  plays  after  dinner 


In  the  Olives.  63 

Hide-and-go-seek  mid  the  rocks  till  it  has  wearied  of  sport. 
There — see  the  swoop — down  pounces  the  robber,  and  soon  the  poor 
pheasant 

Is  borne  up  to  the  clouds  and  is  consumed  on  the  cliff.      (.'  r 
Maiden,  beware,  who  art  singing  and  playing  now  under  the  Olives, 

The  destroyer  may  come,  unto  thy  hiding-place  lured 
By  the  song  and  the  laugh  which  are  rising  up  over  the  tree-tops  : 

Like  the  eagle  he  seeks  banquets  of  innocent  flesh. — 
These  words  spake  the  old  moralizer,  moralizing  within  me ; 

Me  he  intended  to  hit,  thus  then  I  answered  his  thrusts  : 
My  little  wings  are  not  of  the  eagle,  but  of  light-flying  Eros ; 

Beak  he  has  none,  I  affirm,  but  a  sweet  mouth  for  a  kiss; 
Nor  has  he  talons,  but  the  wee  pretty  hand  of  the  baby; 

NOT  upon  flesh  does  he  feed  but  upon  fancy's  bright  flowers. 
Look  in  mine  eye,  old  Goody, — there's  not  the  fierce  flash  of  the  falcon, 

But  its  soft  amorous  globe  melts  in  the  glance  of  a  maid. 


64  In  the  OJr;s. 


CYCLET  THIRD. 

1. 

"Have  you,  O  stranger,  in  3-0111-  country  Olives?"   the  rude  peasant 
asks  me, 

As  I  look  up  at  the  limbs  hung  with  large  droppings  of  jet. 
Ah,  Good  Friend,  I  reply,  my  country  produces  no  Olives, 

Carpets  of  silver-green  leaves  sparkle  not  over  our  plains  ; 
On  the  wayside  you  find  not  these  trees  with  a  dome  built  of  berries, 

And  with  the  twigs  in  between  holding  rich  layers  of  fruit. 
There  is  not  seen  this  light-hearted,  delicate  sway  of  the  tree-tops, 

As  they  move  in  the  breeze  sent  from  Parnassus  above. 
Nor  is  there  under  the  branches  the  graceful  dance  of  the  maidens, 

In  sweet  concord  attuned  to  the  bright  movement  of  leaves ; 
Nor  is  heard  there  the  hymn  as  it  breathes  from  the  hearts  of  the 
youthful. 

Winning  the  body  to  rhythm  as  in  the  chorus  it  moves. 
There  we  sing  not,  because,  I  should  say,  we  possess  not  the  Olive, 

Work  is  not  seasoned  with  song,  crowned  not  with  poesy's  bloom. 
Nor  the  folds  do  we  own,  the  immaculate  folds  of  the  dancers 

Waving  soft  notes  in  accord  with  the  glad  leaves  and  the  la}*. 
Yes,  the  truth  must  be  told — my  country  produces  no  Olives, 

And  by  some  it  is  said  that  they  will  never  there  grow, 


In  the  Olives.  65 

But  I  do  not  believe  it.     So  I  say  to  the  peasant, 
Who  in  deep  marvel  is  lost  how  any  land  can  exist 

Wholly  without  the  beautiful  world  of  the  silvery  Olives, 

And  all  the  music  and  mirth  which  underneath  them  are  born. 

I  must  confess  too,  now  that  I  think  of  the  matter  more  closely, 
I  have  to. wonder  myself  how  without  Olives  man  is. 


There  is  one  ugly  sound  I  sometimes  hear  in  the  Olives ; 

Nowhere  pleasant  to  me,  here  it  is  doubly  accursed  : 
'Tis  the  crack  of  a  gun.     The  fire-red  cap  and  shag  mantle 

Yonder  I  dimly  can  see  gliding  along  through  the  trees  ; 
There  the  hunter  stealthily  lurks  for  the  hare  or  the  pheasant, 

Or  for  the  birds  in  the  twigs  at  the  great  feast  of  the  fruit. 
Through  the  orchard  afar  the  report  on  the  silence  is  carried 

Where  a  transparent  repose  lay  in  the  beams  of  the  sun  ; 
Every  Olive  is  frightened  to  a  continuous  flutter, 

For  their  enemy  comes  who  is  here  shooting  their  peace — 
Driving  off  from  their  leafy  embrace  the  Parnassian  songsters, 

Driving  the  poesy  off  which  the  glad  Olives  enfolds. 
The  rude  echo  chimes  not  with  the  notes  of  the  lyre  or  panspipe, 

Nor  with  the  voices  of  maids  ever  preluding  the  hymn. 
But  the  whiff  from  that  gun  is  the  breath  of  some  demon  infernal 

Which  doth  obscure  in  a  cloud  even  Apollo's  high  lamp. 
I  too  am  frightened,  carelessly  stretched  in  the  shade  of  an  Olive, 

Playing  on  a  soft  lute  that  is  entuned  to  the  clime ; 
For  I  did  not  expect  to  hear  such  a  sound  in  this  orchard 


66  In  the  Olives. 

Where  in  ages  antique  I  was  disporting  my  hours. 
Now  I  am  roused,  hut  the  joyous  old  realm  departs  from  my  vision, 

At  the  rude  shock  of  that  crack  vanishing  into  the  years. 
So  at  once  I  wake  up  in  this  world,  yet  somewhat  astonished, 

As  a  sulphurous  smell  greets  my  return  to  my  time. 
That  was  the  puff  which  blew  the  old  world  into  the  new- one, 

Blew  the  whole  race  with  a  whiff  thorough  these  thousands  of  years ; 
For  on  gunpowder's  flash  we  moderns  have  come  from  old  Hellas 

To  our  realms  by  the  West  on  either  side  of  the  sea. 
I  too  am  blown  by  that  puff  just  while  I  lie  here  in  this  orchard, 

Ages  on  ages  I  whiz,  pressed  in  a  sharp  point  of  time; 
Out  of  the  temples  of  Gods  I  drop  to  this  Byzantine  chapel, 

Blasted  from  Delphi  the  old,  down  into  Kastri  the  new. 

3. 
In  our  world  there  are  many  fools,  many  kinds  too  of  folly ; 

But  the  greatest  fool  'mong  the  great  types  of  his  kind 
Is  the  man  who  in  stupid  caprice  is  enraged  at  the  Muses, 

For  a  refusal  to  grant  gifts  which  are  theirs  to  bestow. 
Yet  of  such  folly  to-day  I  was  guilty  and  them  I  berated : 

"  Your  stale  fount  may  I  shun,  never  again  hear  your  name ! 
Both  are  always  cut  up  in  the  hash  of  merciless  rhymesters ; 

Men  in  two  thousand  years  weary  have  grown  of  that  dish. 
Would  that  old  Seismos  might  sink  Castalia  into  his  caverns, 

So  that  never  again  one  single  drop  of  her  rill 
"Would  appear  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  or  flow  down  to  the  Olives : 

For  some  dolt  will  be  found  always  intent  on  her  stream, 


In  the  Olives.  67 

And  of  her  drops  he  will  ever  be  tippling,  declaring  them  sovereign 

In  all  cases  of  rage  from  a  poetic  flea-bite. 
Then  he'll  continue  to  scribble  in  verse  his  delirious  frenzies, 

And  ascribe  them  all  to  his  deep  draught  at  the  spring; 
Though  his  fancy  steps  not  a  Grace  but  capers  a  Dervish — 

Morbid  caprice  of  disease,  not  the  mild  movement  of  health." 
Thus  many  voices  were  chiding  around  me  in  horrible  discord — 

Each  one  trying  to  scold  louder  than  all  of  the  rest; 
Into  the  world  of  the  damned  I  thought  for  a  time  I  had  fallen, 

Into  the  Hades  new,  made  of  the  Critic's  curse; 
For  I  imagined  that  I  was  one  of  those  critical  spirits 

Plunged  into  torture  eterne  at  the  mere  name  of  the  Muse, 
And  within  me  I  heard  only  blasphemy,  pain,  and  confusion, 

Just  because  for  a  day  all  the  sweet  Sisters  I  banned. 
Where  they  are  not,  ah,  there  is  the  dolorous  realm  of  Pluto, 

There  are  the  sunless  days  passed  in  damnation  and  ruth. 
Back  I  rush  to  the  Delphian  hill-side  and  to  its  fountain, 

That  I  be  free  from  the  fiends  Avhich  are  now  biting  my  soul : 
Never,  I  swear  it,  again  in  my  life  shall  I  mock  you,  oh  Muses, 

But  if  you  will  permit,  always  your  mocker  I'll  mock. 

4. 
Once  on  a  visit  to  Delphi  there  came  a  Cahokian  grocer, 

Sugar  and  Coffee  and  Tea,  Sugar  and  Coffee  and  Tea 
Had  been  the  single  refrain  of  his  life,  his  soul's  sweetest  music, 

Which  underneath  evermore  had  a  metallic  sharp  clink. 
When  he  looked  at  the  Delphian  walls  written  over  with  letters, 

5 


68  In  the  Olives. 

In  that  work  he  beheld  nought  but  a  pile  of  old  rocks  j 
Then  I  triumphantly  showed  him  a  column's  most  beautiful  fragment : 

It  was  a  broken  stone  good  for  a  counter,  perhaps  ; 
Also  I  stepped  off  the  space  and  sought  to  build  up  the  old  temple 

For  his  fancy  anew,  decked  with  its  gables  and  frieze, 
Quite  as  it  lay  many  ages  ago  in  the  smile  of  the  sungod — 

"  Stick  to  the  facts,  the  hard  facts,"  was  his  response  to  my  words. 
Here  stood  the  Hall  of  the  Council   far  overlooking  the  valley, 

There  the  Gymnasium  lay,  shining  with  forms  of  the  youths, 
Yonder  above  sat  the  people  beholding  the  games  of  the  Stadion — 

''  What  is  the  good  of  all  that  ?"  asked  his  inquisitive  mind. 
Now  in  our  walk  let  us  pass  up  the  rill  to  the  cleft  of  Castalia, 

Where  the  Muses  once  rose  from  the  clear  fountain  of  pearls, 
Singing  their  strains  till  the  mountain  broke  open  this  passage  to  hear 
them  : 

"'Tis  but  a  gully,  I  guess,  worn  in  the  cliff  by  this  run," 
And  he  began  to  grow  weary.    I  said  :  Let  us  go  to  the  Olives 

Where  they  reach  to  the  vale  down  from  the  tops  of  the  hills, 

f' 
Forming  an  ocean  of  leaves  full  of  points  of  a  silvery  sparkle  : 

"  Silver,  Sir,  did  you  say  ?  That  is  the  point  I  would  see." 
But  the  merry  young  trees  were  but  wood — a  lot  of  green  saplings — 

And  the  berries  I  plucked  fresh  from  the  twigs  he  declared 
Crude  to  his  taste  and  rank  to  his  smell  and  deformed  to  his  eyesight : 

Still  I  continued  to  talk  of  the  Parnassian  breath, 
And  of  the  manifold  play  of  the  leaves  in  the  sunbeams, 

And  of  the  laughter  of  rills  as  through  the  orchard  they  leap, 
And  of  the  trill  of  the  birds  attuned  to  the  hue  of  the  flowers  : 


In  the  Olives.  69 

"  All  that  we  have  at  home,  better,  I  think,  than  here." 
But  at  last  the  Greek  maiden  I  pointed  out  there  in  the  Olives  : 

Look  in  the  depth  of  her  eye  dipped  in  the  blue  of  yon  sky, 
Notice  the  Phidian  forearm,  turned  to  the  gracefullest  taper, 

And  the  white  bend  of  her  brow  swept  o'er  with  wavelets  of  gold, 
And  the  movement  of  form  that  is  filling  the  air  with  its  fragrance  : 

"  Oh  good  lord  "  he  cried  "  she  is  some  country  wench  ; 
Look,  she  has  no  stockings,  merely  a  pair  of  blue  leggins 

Which  do  not  hide  her  nude  feet  slipped  in  the  scraggy  old  shoes." 
Ended  our  Delphian  walk,  1  conducted  him  home  to  my  cabin, 

Nor  could  the  secret  I  keep  which  the  dear  Sisters  me  told, 
But  after  bashful  pretences  began  I  to  read  him  my  poems  : 

-  Friend,  isn't  what  thou  hast  read,  rather  a  fanciful  thing  ?  " 
Ah,  no  Xymphs  he  saw  in  the  stream,  no  Muses  he  heard,  but 

Sugar  and  Coffee  and  Tea,  Sugar  and  Coffee  and  Tea. 

5. 

Thereunto  said  the  grocer  who  came  from  the  fens  of  Cahokia: 

Xow  I  have  seen  all  Greece — merely  a  fraud  it  is  ; — 
And  the  words  of  his  voice  were  pitched  in  a  screech  of  defiance, 

Discontent  had  her  seat  just  on  the  curl  of  his  lip. 
No  one  need  talk  to  me  now— he  continuec1 — I  know  all  alout  it; 

All  that  is  here  I  have  seen,  all  too  that  ever  was  here. 
When  I  go  home,  a  book  I  have  the  intent;on  of  writing, 

Just  in  order  to  show  what  the  delusions  have  been, 
And  I  }  urpof  e  to  prove  to  the  world  the  plain  proposition, 

That  the  Greeks  are  cheats,  having  deceived  mankind. 


70  In  the  Olives. 

For  they  have  said  that  Castalia  here  is  the  fount  of  the  Muses ; 

But  of  its  waters  I  drank,  jet  not  a  poem  I  made ; 
And  I  labored  a  day  to  climb  to  the  peak  of  Parnassus, 

Those  false  Sisters  to  see — only  a  rock  I  beheld. — 
Ah,  my  friend,  I  replied,  the  market  already  is  glutted, 

Grocers  have  written  ere  this  many  a  book  on  Greece, 
And  very  learned  Professors  who  had  as  great  talent  as  Grocers, 

Weighing  Olympian  Gods  as  they  would  sugar  and  tea. 

6. 
I  was  passing  along  on  the  cliff  of  steep  Pappadeia, 

To  the  brink  I  slipped  and  in  the  chasm  I  peered 
Where  many  hundi'eds  of  feet  the  rocks  leap  straight  to  the  bottom, 

Till  they  reach  a  dark  mouth  gaping  adown  the  gorge. 
I  am  quaked  with  shudders  that  come  from  invisible  monsters, 

As  my  head  I  extend  o'er  the  precipitous  edge; 
Out  the  abysm  beneath  there  darts  thi^ough  the  eye  a  keen  torture — 

Out  the  passionate  gloom  couched  far  below  in  the  rift : 
There  lies  Zalisca.     Scarcely  I  dare  look  down,  I  look  forward 

To  the  opposite  bank  where  are  huge  columns  of  stone  ; 
Slowly  I  sink  with  mine  eye  on  its  layers  down  to  the  wolf-hole, 

From  the  summit  half  way ;  round  it  the  eagles  now  fly, 
For  like  fortresses  there  they  have  built  inaccessible  eyries  : 

Thence  I  began  with  a  look  lower,  still  lower,  to  sink, 
When  of  a  sudden  I  fell — fell  down  the  dire  steep  in  my  fancy, 

Whizzed  along  by  the  rocks>  by  the  wild  eagles  I  \vhizzed : 
So  I  fell — I  never  could  light,  but  still  I  kept  falling 


In  the  Olives.  71 

Down  that  infernal  chasm — never  could  get  on  my  feet. 
It  was  a  dream  of  a  fall  and  yet  it  was  horribly  real ; 

Thus  my  fancy  me  tricked,  for  it  would  give  me  no  ground, 
But  it  cheated  my  eyes  with  an  empty  appearance  of  landing, 

Which  merely  gave  a  fresh  start  to  a  new  furious  descent. 
Finally  from  the  abyss  Nymph  Zalisca  spoke  in  high  anger : 

Thy  \veak  sight  cannot  reach  thus  the  inside  of  my  fane ; 
Now  I  have  punished  thee,  also  have  punished  presumptuous  fancy; 

If  thou  wouldst  come  where  I  am,  seek  not  the  horrors  of  night, 
Shun  the  chaotic  chasm  forever  devoid  of  the  sunshine, 

But  above  all,  my  abode  seek  not  with  fancy  alone. 
Go  down  slowly  this  mountain,  then  ascend  the  small  valley, 

Every  step  is  firm  ground,  though  somewhat  long  is  the  road. 
There  at  once  you  will  enter  my  door,  and  I  shall  receive  thee, 

There  too  Apollo  will  shine  just  at  the  mid-hour  of  day. — 
So  the  Nymph  reprovingly  said  as  I  turned  from  my  gazing, 

Still  to  be  falling  I  seemed  though  1  was  walking  away, 
For  my  fancy  still  sought  to  keep  up  that  play  of  delusion, 

Like  a  machine  in  the  brain  which  in  its  whirl  could  riot  .stop. 
Such  was  Zalisca's  penalty  for  the  abuse  of  the  Muses, 

Some  other  wyay  I  must  seek  to  the  enchantress'  grot. 


7. 
It  is  night ;  I  go  out  from  my  hut  for  a  view  of  the  Olives, 

That  I  may  see  how  they  loak  when  great  Apollo  withdraws. 
So  I  cast  a  long  glance  far  over  the  sweep  of  the  valley  : 


72  In  the  Olives. 

Trees  are  a  dark  dense  coil  winding  around  up  the  hills. 
Only  to  sunshine  do  they  belong — e'en  the  sister  of  Phoebus, 

Mild-beaming  Artemis  there  can  not  illumine  the  leaves; 
Yet  to-day  when  I  passed  underneath  them  how  gaily  they  fluttered 

As  with  the  sun-rays  they  played  soft  intertwinings  of  love. 
In  the  night  their  glister  doth  change  into  dark  lines  of  silence, 

Moonlight  can  not  entice  from  their  glum  sparkle  a  laugh. 
But  beyond  them  leaps  up  the  huge  mountain  with  three-pronged 
trident, 

Like  a  wraith  of  despair  under  the  sheen  of  the  moon ; 
And  it  seems  to  threaten  the  Olives  that  cower  below  it, 

Sinking  to  darkness  in  fright,  till  they  can  flee  to  the  Dawn. 
At  those  shapes  too  I  shudder,  I  haste  to  my  cabin  in  terror — 

Shadows  I  can  not  endure,  nor  the  great  giant  up  there. 
For  I  now  have  become  so  at  one  with  the  sport  of  the  Olives 

That  unhappy  I  am  when  I  behold  not  their  dance. 
So  I  stretch  out  on  the  rug,  and  speedily  grasp  for  my  note-book, 

Scribble  by  flickers  of  light  that  a  faint  taper  sends  out, 
And  I  seek  to  illumine  myself  from  the  thoughts  of  the  daytime ; 

Scarcely  a  flash  can  I  get  out  of  my  memory's  ward, 
Suddenly  then  I  drop  over  a  dream— the  Olives  retm*n  now, 

All  the  darkness  has  fled,  Phoebus  is  shining  on  high. 


What  is  the  reason  the  dream-god  sends  me  so  often  one  vision  ? 

Three  successive  nights  has  he  despatched  the  same  dream. 
Seldom  his  messages  hither  withstand  the  light  of  the  morning : 


In  the  Olives.  73 

Into  Lethe  they  fly  borne  on  the  pinions  of  Sleep. 
This  one,  however,  always  persists  in  remaining  the  day-time, 

Gently  it  hovei-s  above  while  I  am  taking  my  walk 
Through  the  Olives,  whose  leaves  in  a  thrill  attune  my  bright  vision, 

Till  I  am  swaying  aloft  on  the  vast  swell  of  their  notes. 
Over  the  ocean  I  pass  to  my  home,  transplanting  the  Olive 

Into  a  golden  vale  lying  afar  by  the  West, 
Where  flows  down  to  the  realms  of  the  sun  the  wonderful  Eiver, 

Banding  together  the  world  in  the  soft  span  of  its  stream, 
Laughingly  joining  the  summer  to  winter,  the  winter  to  summer, 

While  on  its  path  each  clime  plants  a  fair  garden  of  fruits. 
On  the  banks  of  that  river,  just  where  it  laves  its  dear  city, 

Over  a  bottom  of  marl  rests  the  vast  surface  of  trees ; 
And  the  barbarian  Boreas  seems  not  to  mangle  their  leaflets, 

Which  with  the  sparkle  of  seas  sweep  to  the  North  and  the  South. 
Long  I  looked  at  the  infinite  stretch  of  the  silver-green  Olives, 

As  they  lay  in  the  sun,  weaving  betimes  in  the  wind. 
Quite  as  much  they  appeared  to  rejoice  in  the  name  of  Cahokia, 

As  in  Delphi's  fond  name  they  are  rejoicing  to-day. 
Fruit  too  they  bore,  the  fairest  and  richest — richer  than  Delphian — 

All  around  in  the  twigs  densely  the  berries  hung  down. 
Just  from  the  soil  rose  the  trees  where  once  was  the  stench  of  foul  water; 

Where  only  reptiles  bred,  making  their  couch  in  the  slime ; 
There  the  countless  vermin  that  sting  swarmed  out  of  the  quagmires, 

Pestilence  hovered  above,  ready  to  pounce  on  its  prey; 
And  the  only  music  there  heard  was  the  roar  of  the  bull-frog 

Mid  the  million-fold  buzz  sent  from  an  insect  world. 


74  In  the  Olives. 

But  the  Olive  now  is  enthroned  which  I  brought  from  Parnassus, 

Sloughs  wear  the  smile  of  the  Muse,  banished  are  fever  and  noise, 
And  the  leaves,  like  the  curl  of  the  waters,  send  forth  a  soft  laughter, 

As  they  join  in  the  dance  over  the  floor  of  the  tops  ; 
The  bland  breezes,  fair  daughters  of  ^Eolus,  gently  embrace  them, 

Many  sweet  notes  they  lisp,  as  they  unite  in  the  sport. 
But  behold !  a  bright  circle  of  forms  are  weaving  delightfullest  measures, 

While  a  glad  music  intwines  into  the  movements  of  grace, 
Youths  and  maidens  have  joined  their  hands  into  links  of  the  chorus, 

Songs  now  arise  from  the  vale  throughout  the  length  oT  the  stream ; 
Under  the  branches  where  once  was  heard  but  the  discord  of  insects, 

Hymns  sprout  forth  with  the  fruit,  labor  is  lightened  with  lays ; 
All  the  great  valley  that  was  erewhile  but  a  horrible  jungle 

With  the  glad  Olives  is  filled,  filled  is  with  music  and  song. 


Book  Third. 


• 

Iphulu. 


CYCLET  FIEST. 

1. 

In  these  verses  I  wish  to  build  a  new  temple  to  Fortune, 

For  the  Goddess  to-day  showed  me  a  favor  divine  ; 
I  shall  raise  her  a  temple  and  deck  it  with  friezes  of  marble 

Which  will  emblazon  her  deed  worthy  of  glorious  Gods. 
For  she  led  me  direct  to  the  house  where  dwells  Elpinike, 

Whom  to  behold  I  had  wished  all  the  long  day  of  unrest. 
Just  at  dusk  I  sauntered  around  through  the  lanes  of  the  village, 

With  a  sweet  image  in  mind  ta'en  from  a  maid  I  had  seen 
Watering  her  horse  at  the  gush  of  a  fountain  early  this  morning  : 

Lorn  and  unhappy  1  strayed  in  a  delicious  still  pain, 
When  a  door  that  stood  right  before  me  was  oped  and  the  image 

Flew  into  body  at  once,  with  transformation  divine. 
Such  is  always  the  brightest  Olympian  present  of  Fortune, 

When  the  dear  shadow  she  turns  into  fresh  life  at  her  touch  ; 
So  I  beheld  the  pale  lines  of  my  fancy  to  color  transmuted, 

Till  my  soul  became  eye — then  too  mine  eye  became  soul. 
That  was  Elpinike.     She  spake  and  besought  me  to  enter, 

Enter  I  did  in  her  home,  following  footsteps  so  dear ; 
Then  from  the  joist  where  it  hung  on  a  nail  she  took  down  a  pome 
granate  ; 

Which  had  been  plucked  by  her  hand  in  the  glad  season  of  fruits; 


78  Elpinike. 

And  the  heart  within  it  was  full  of  sweet  juice  and  of  redness, 

Warm  with  a  passionate  glow,  soft  to  the  lips  as  a  kiss; 
Quickly  she  broke  the  hard  rind,  and  quickly  she  peeled  off  its  fragments, 

When  the  heart  was  revealed,  crimson,  translucent  all  through. 
With  her  fingers  gently  she  parted  in  twain  the  pomegranate, 

Arid  she  reached  me  the  half — half  of  that  bright  scarlet  heart; 
Just  in  the  middle  most  deftly  she  drew  the  line  of  partition, 

So  that  each  half  seemed  a  whole  while  it  remained  still  a  half; 
And  no  violence  rude  she  employed  to  make  the  division, 

But  the  parts  of  the  fruit  fell  as  by  nature  in  twain  ; 
For  the  one  side  had  grown  as  if  it  belonged  to  me  only, 

Grown  to  be  given  away  with  the  coy  blush  of  a  maid ; 
But  the  other  red  side  that  glowed  in  her  hand  like  a  beacon, 

Wary  she  kept  for  herself — all  she  bestowed  not  at  once. 
What  a  joy  for  the  soft-hearted  fruit  that  no  powTer  convulsive 

Tore  asunder  its  cells  filled  with  the  blood  of  its  life  ! 
Then  we  sat  down  at  the  hearth  by  the  fire  and  ate  the  pomegranate, 

Picking  out  one  by  one  seeds  sweetly  wrapped  in  the  pulp, 
And  each  seed  was  a  word  ensanguined  in  the  heart's  color, 

And  each  word  was  a  note  hymned  by  the  Muses'  mild  breath. 


Here  I  lie  down  on  the  sunlit  slant  of  skyey  Parnassus; 

Thousands  of  hymns  in  a  dance  joyfully  play  through  my  brain ; 
Every  line  is  dipped  in  the  beams  that  are  sent  from  Apollo, 

In  me  all  is  transfused  to  a  mild  glow  by  their  spell. 
Silent  the  hymns  seem  to  follow  each  other  in  endless  procession, 


Elpinike.  79 

Just  their  finger-tips  touch  as  they  glide  by  through  the  air, 
And  they  are  formed  out  of  hundreds  of  images,  jointed  with  music : 

While  they  are  flitting  along  in  their  sweet  faces  I  peer. 
Then  from  the  pageant  I  snatch  one;  the  shape  that  seems  to  me 
brightest, 

And  I  seek  to  impose  fetters  of  verse  on  her  form ; 
But  she  refuses  to  dance  and  to  laugh  as  she  did  in  her  freedom, 

Only  in  freedom  she  sings  joined  to  her  sisters  in  song. 
So  that  train  of  translucent  dreams  in  its  center  is  broken 

When  their  beautiful  queen  falls  into  measures  and  feet. 
Ah,  I  feel  that  the  best  of  my  hymns  are  not  those  wrhich  are  written, 

Brightest  of  visions  are  quenched  in  the  embrace  of  the  word ; 
For  they  are  born  in  a  dance  of  the  spirit  and  share  in  its  movement, 

Left  in  the  musical  throng  where  they  are  joined  to  their  kin. 
Still  I  shall  catch  them — the  butterflies — e'en  though  many  escape  me, 

Though  their  wings  of  gold  sheen  rudely  are  brushed  by  my  hand  ; 
Prom  their  pinions  bright  scales  will  remain  on  the  tips  of  my  fingers, 

Though  the  fair  phantom  be  flown,  seen  in  its  splendor  no  more. 
So  the  hymns  of  the  ages  drop  many  deeds  into  Lethe, 

Even  the  song  of  the  hour  leaves  many  minutes  unsung ; 
And  to-day  there  are  thousands  of  hymns  rising  up  with  the  moments, 

And  with  the  moments  they  sink  down  to  oblivion's  shades. 
But  in  their  motion  I  live — I  exist  but  a  eyelet  of  visions 

Into  the  links  of  a  chain  woven  by  ticks  of  the  clock. 
But  here  comes  the  maidenly  form  for  which  I  was  grasping, 

Not  a  dream  mid  dreams,  but  all  alone  and  herself. 


80  Elpinike. 

Oh,  Elpinike  whenever  I  see  the  soft  turn  of  thy  bosom 
All  my  images  vain  dart  at  a  glance  into  life. 

3. 
To  the  house  I  came  where  dwelleth  the  fair  Elpinike ; 

We  sat  down  by  the  fire  that  in  the  chimney  was  lit, 
On  the  hearth  the  twigs  of  the  oak  and  the  olive  were  sparkling, 

There  on  the  mats  we  sat  down  round  the  bright  blaze  of  the  fire. 
Large  was  the  company — youthful  and  old — about  her  assembled, 

Crowds  of  suitors  and  guests  who  find  delight  in  her  look. 
Many  a  story  was  told  of  the  time  of  the  Great  Revolution, 

How  Palicaris  so  bold  slew  then  the  barbarous  Turk. 
Next  they  sang,  sang  gaily  of  wine  and  of  certain  three  maidens, 

Who  dispensed  to  the  guests  liquid  of  poesy's  flame. 
But  to  me  Elpinike  came  with  ajar  full  of  sweetmeats, 

Bade  me  to  eat  of  the  fruit — citrons  from  Chios  they  were, 
Made  by  her  hand  of  deep  skill  and  then  laid  away  for  occasion, 

Till  the  right  one  should  come  who  could  enjoy  her  sweet  art. 
Though  she  would  not  confess,  I  knew  it  was  she  who  had  made  them, 

For  her  delicate  touch  in  the  preserves  I  could  taste, 
And  the  fragrance  that  flows  from  her  look  I  found  in  each  morsel, 

Xow  mildly  flavored  anew  with  the  low  whisper  she  breathed. 
Long  «he  stood  there  before  me,  pretending  to  hold  me  the  server. 

Longer  I  caused  her  to  stand  uttering  words  for  delay 
Sweeter  than  citrons — words  that  were  sweetened  by  Eros 

With  the  glance  of  the  eye  and  the  soft  touch  of  the  hand. 
Then  she  reached  me  a  beaker  that  brimmed  with  Castalia's  pure  water 


Elpinike.  81 

Just  from  the  spring  by  the  rock,  redolent  with  a  new  song 
Fresh  from  the  Muse ;  with  her  face  in  each  drop  I  drank  off  the 
crystal — 

Draughts  that  reach  to  the  soul,  quenching  its  thirst  by  the  hymn. 
Now  all  the  day  I  do  nothing  but  eat  of  the  junkets  of  fair  Elpinike, 

With  them  I  drink  of  the  brook,  limpid  Castalia's  stream. 

4. 
Tell  me,  what  is  that  voice  which  I  hear,  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet? 

On  the  dusk  air  it  rides  down  to  the  vale  from  the  town. 
Some  stern  duty  to  men  it  commands  as  it  were  from  the  Heavens, 

Like  the  final  loud  blast  bidding  to  judgment  the  world.: — 
That  sound — 'tis  but  the  horn  of  the  strict  overseer  of  Olives 

Summoning  all  of  our  folk  out  of  the  orchard  below, 
That  he  may  measure  the  labor  which  has  been  done  by  our  fingers  : 

So  we  render  account  daily  for  that  which  we  do. — 
Judgment  it  is,  then  ;  well,  let  me  be  thy  judge,  Elpinike; 

What  to-day  hast  thou  done  ?  very  severe  I  shall  be. 
Thou  has  gathered,  1  notice,  many  a  basket  of  olives, 

Here  in  the  sack  they  all  lie — each  had  a  touch  of  thy  hand. 
Now  as  I  think  of  their  destiny  happy,  I  become  jealous, 

What  I  can  not  obtain,  they  without  asking  possess; 
For  they  receive  the  glance  of  thine  eye,  and  are  grasped  by  thy  fingers, 

Then  they  repose  for  awhile  in  the  caress  of  thy  palm. 
Would  that  I  were  an  olive  that  I  by  thee  might  be  gathered, 

Softly  be  ta'en  to  thy  hand  for  a  sweet  moment's  embrace  ! 
Nay,  I  would  like  to  be  crushed  in  the  might  of  its  fervidest  pressure, 


82  Elpinike. 

Till  I  would  redden  the  palm  with  the  warm  drops  from  my  breast. 
But  this  is  not  all  of  thy  work,  for  I  see  the  heart  of  a  stranger 

As  the  chief  prize  of  to-day — which  thou  didst  pluck  with  thine  eyes 
When  this  morning  thou  wert  descending  the  hillside  of  Delphi : 

Here  it  lies  mid  the  fruit,  mid  the  dark  berries  it  throbs 
In  the  strain  of  a  hymn  and  beats  time  with  a  curious  movement : 

It  in  these  Delphian  groves  thou  art  detaining  in  song. 
But  the  just  judge  releases  it  not,  and  this  is  his  judgment : 

Thou  hast  no  blame,  oh  maid,  thou  canst  not  help  being  fair ; 
!Nor  can  I  censure  this  heart  for  being  the  captive  of  beauty : 

Let  it  sing  on  in  its  bonds  till  it  shall  sing  itself  free. 

5. 
•"  What  is  your  name  ?" — she  asked  me  as  if  she  was  eager  to  know  k, 

For  the  laugh  that  was  gay  fell  into  soberer  tones. 
"  What  is  your  name,  pray,  tell  it  me  ?" — thus  she  descends  to  petition  : 

So  I  look  in  her  eyes  as  I  pronounce  her  my  name. 
Then  she  seeks  to  repeat  it,  but  the  rude  sounds  make  her  stumble  : 

Still  I  love  her  mistakes  filled  with  her  voice  and  her  soul ; 
For  the  erratic  light  play  of  her  words  doth  seem  a  lost  rainbow, 

And  each  lisp  of  her  tongue  is  the  stray  note  of  a  hymn. 
4i  What  is  your  name  ?"  again  she  demands  and  again  I  repeat  it : 

Many  a  lesson  she  learns  syllabled  after  my  speech. 
But  the  melodious  blunders  that  fall  from  her  lips  I  pity. 

Pity  the  Delphian  note  tied  to  a  barbarous  word. 
•"  Leave  the  harsh  tones  that  only  belong  in  the  throat  of  a  stranger, 

Whisper  nought  in  mine  ear  but  that  soft  music  of  thine ;  " 


Elpinike.  83 

So  I  say  to  her,  yet  she  persists  in  trying  to  utter 

With  exactness  my  name  wound  in  a  wreath  of  sweet  sound. 
Eros,  the  flattering  rogue,  has  shot  a  bad  thought  in  my  bosom  : 

That  the  Greek  maid  by  some  spell  seeks  to  get  hold  of  my  name 
And  to  make  it  her  own.     Still  daily  continued  her  effort 

Till  the  rude  Saxon  she  tamed  to  the  soft  kiss  of  her  lips ; 
Now  she  has  learned  my  name  and  also  pronounces  it  rightly, 

Tuned  to  the  accents  of  love  which  the  fair  Helen  once  spoke. 
I  confess  hitherto  my  name  was  not  to  my  liking, 

But  it  I  took  as  it  came,  from  an  invisible  fate, 
Not  of  my  choice  or  control.     But  as  uttered  by  Greek  Elpinike, 

Now  1  hear  with  delight  what  was  distasteful  before ;  

For  of  the  rough  blocks  of  sound  she  has  built  a  fair  temple, 

Barest  rhythmical  notes  rise  from  untunable  speech, 
And  in  my  soul  the  fond  image  she  wakes  of  a  new  revelation 

Which  I  never  had  dreamed  dwelt  in  the  breath  of  a  maid; 
Deep  are  the  throbs  that  are  borne  on  the  air  that  is  pulsed  from  her 
bosom, 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  the  word  which  she  has  caught  from  my  lips. 
But  not  only  my  n^me  she  winds  in  a  garland  of  music, 

Even  myself  she  surrounds  with  the  refrain  of  her  voice, 
So  that  she  changes  me  into  a  subtle,  .harmonious  measure, 

And  all  the  day  I  can  hear  choruses  over  the  heights ; 
Fain  would  I  swoon  forever  away  to  a  hymn  of  her  breathing, 

Till  each  word  of  my  voice  rayed  the  full  grace  of  her  form. 
Thus  she  gently  transforms  me  along  with  my  name  and  my  language, 

The  whole  world  she  transforms  into  her  melody  sweet ; 

6 


84  Elpintte. 

All  the  trees  of  the  forest,  all  the  stars  of  the  Heavens, 
Even  the  soul  of  man  hymns  to  the  sway  of  her  song 


Why  in  such  rapturous  mood  do  I  walk  through  the  Olive.s  this 
morning  ? 

Something  within  me  has  wings  and  is  attempting  to  fly; 
For  my  feet  have  no  weight  and  are  set  on  the  earth  with  an  effort : 

Elpinike  I  saw  leading  her  horse  down  the  hill 
On  whose  slant  are  strown  the  high  rocky  nests  of  the  Delphians, 

By  them  spiti  called — built  on  the  rock  out  of  rock  ; 
Soon  she  stopped  at  the  rill  Avhich  flows  from  the  source  of  the  Muses. 

Me  she  invited  to  drink,  scooping  her  cup  in  the  stream  ; 
So  I  drank  off  the  draught — in  each  drop  there  sparkled  a  verselet, 

Then  the  beaker  she  took,  drinking  herself  of  its  strain. 
Sweet  was  the  laugh  of  the  brook  o'er  the  pebbles,  yet  sweeter  the 
maiden ; 

Both  in  beauty  seemed  one,  both  in  the  soul  sang  a  hymn. 
Stooping  near  to  the  current  she  bathed  face  and  hands  in  the  water. 

When  like  a  nymph  she  arose  out  of  the  crystalline  stream ; 
Over  her  cheek  had  spread  the  soft  glow  of  the  dawn  rosy-fingered, 

And  her  form  was  a  dream  sent  from  some  Goddess  of  old. 
Well  I  know  that  then  she  was  touched  by  one  of  the  Muses 

teaching  out  of  their  brook  where  they  have  always  their  home; 
For  l>y  ban  1  divine  had  her  body  become  a  sweet  poem, 

Which  all  her  motions  sang  tuned  to  the  softest  refrain. 


Elpinike.  85 

Still  on  my  heart-strings  IIOAV  I  can  hear  the  strains  of  that  music 
As  through  the  Olives  I  walk,  dreaming  of  what  I  beheld. 

7. 

I  am  seeking  some  word  to  express  what  I  feel  in  this  sunlight, 

As  through  the  village  I  go,  threading  around  in  the  lanes  ; 
Quite  impossible  'tis  to  find  any  name  for  the  humor, 

Which  refuses  to  slip  into  the  trammels  of  speech ; 
But  Tranquility  let  it  be  called  for  the  sake  of  these  verses, 

Since  they  demand  some  word,  though  not  exactly  it  fit. 
Tranquil  I  saunter  along,  the  village  also  is  tranquil, 

Both  of  us  have  the  same  mood,  both  of  us  seem  all  alone; 
For  the  people  have  gone  to  the  fields — to  the  Olives  and  vineyards  : 

Labor  is  lord  of  the  place  and  he  keeps  busy  his  folk. 
Hark  !  through  the  passionless  play  of  the  sunbeams  falls  a  low  music, 

Like  the  chord  of  a  lyre  by  a  weird  finger-tip  touched; 
Into  this  radiant  repose  so  softly  the  tones  are  transfused, 

That  they  seem  to  be  one  with  the  calm  soul  of  the  hour, 
And  to  embosom  within  their  lull  some  speechless  emotion, 

Which  on  the  air  of  to-day  rests  in  serenest  delight. 
But  what  causes  that  sound  ?     On  tip-toe  I  slip  to  the  dwelling 

Out  of  which  wells  to  the  sun  all  that  sweet  fountain  of  notes  ; 
Open  the  window  stands — sly  curious  glimpses  I   cast  there  : 

Luok  !  it  is  but  a  loom,  ancient  in  form  and  much  worn. 
But  the  hand  of  deft  Elpinike  is  plying  the  shuttle  : 

There  she  sits  on  the  stool — slightly  she  tips  it  aside, 
That  it  moves  with  her  body  which  steadily  backwards  and  forwards 


NO  Elpinike. 

Sweeps  with  a  manifold  grace  flowing  down  into  the  threads. 
Out  of  her  fingers  the  shuttle  doth  dart  through  the  warp  like  a  dolphin 

Under  the  waves,  while  the  woof  thrills  at  the  touch  of  her  skill. 
Also  she  rouses  the  loom  into  singing  through  all  of  its  timbers, 

And  she  subtly  entwines  in  its  refrain  her  own  self, 
For  she  builds  a  sweet  poem  out  of  the  movements  of  body 

Sent  in  soft  waves  through  that  room  with  the  deep  throbs  of  her  souL 
Tell  me,  I  beg  thee,  what  art  thou  thinking  about,  Elpinike? 

Much  would  I  like  to  be  told— aught  of  great  joy  it  must  be. 
Thus  to  attune  thy  body,  and  even  the  loom  and  the  shuttle. 

That  they  unite  in  one  strain  with  the  glad  sport  of  the  rays. 
She  replied  :  For  thee  I  am  weaving  a  white  phoustanella; 

When  thy  costume  I  see,  deeply  ashamed  I  feel ; 
All  those  drab  dapple  garments  of  Franks,  the  tasteless  barbarians, 

Throw  now  quickly  away  that  thou  appear  in  new  dress; 
Truly  this  is  no  place  for  them  here  in  the  dells  of  Parnassus, 

Even  the  child  in  the  fields  laughs  at  their  graceless  shape. 
Yet  not  one  but  a  dozen,  nay  I  a  hundred  shall  make  thee: 

Hence  in  secret  I  weave  busily  all  the  day  long. 
This  is  my  hope  supreme  that  thou  move  in  iblds  like  the  chorus, 

And  each  fold  be  a  note  sung  to  the  tread  of  the  youths. 
More  than  a  hundred  fair  vestments  I'm  making — with  rhythm  I  fill 
them, 

Whose  clear  strain  thou  wilt  hear  as  they  encircle  thy  form. 
S,)  she  arranged  the  weft  that  ever  a  harmony  subtle 

Flowed  from  the  quick-flying  threads  after  the  stroke  of  the  loom: 
Every  thread  had  a  thrill  in  accord  with  the  whole  of  the  music, 


Elplnike.  87 

For  it  was  touched  by  the  thought  that  was  inspiring  the  maid : 
And  that  thought  was  of  me  when  I  would  appear  in  her  vesture — 
Graceful  white  folds  falling  down,  echoing  softly  her  soul. 


When  I  go  now  on  my  walk  through  Delphi,  every  one  knows  me, 

Gives  a  familiar  salute  with  a  fair  word  or  a  nod, 
And  they  call  me  Didaskali — that  is,  the  Master  or  Teacher, 

With  a  strange  guess  at  my  life,  hinted  perchance  in  my  face. 
I  accept  the  kind  title  and  always  return  friendly  greeting 

To  every  nod  of  the  head,  to  every  smile  of  the  eye. 
Kven  the  children  no  longer  laugh  at  the  foreigner's  costume, 

But  they  will  follow  my  steps,  gently  falteXng, by  the  hand, 
Babbling  their  little  delights  in  many  a  word  of  old  Homer, 

And  these  words  too  I  greet  like  the  dear  faces  of  friends. 
Also  the  mother  will  stop  the  full  sweep  of  her  loom  to  salute  me, 

As  she  sits  weaving  the  threads  for  the  phoustana's  white  folds. 
With  the  Papas  too,  the  priest,  I  oft  take  a  stroll  up  the  mountain  — 

hark-haired,  long-robed  priest,  with  his  hair  parted  like  Chrises 
Just  in  the  middle,  and  falling  loosely  over  his  shoulders  j 

Kindly  and  good  is  the  man,  with  not  a  stain  on  his  soul. 
Hours  pass  unnoticed  as  over  the  valley  we  look  from  the  summit, 

Talking  of  things  far  away  on  the  wide  world's  other  half 
Where  is  my  home  by  the  River.     But  to  Elpinike  I  play  now 

Teacher  all  the  day  long,  teaching  her  mouth-wrenching  words 
Ta'en  from  my  language — words  that  before  never  flowed  from  her 
tongue-tip  : 


88  JElpinike. 

Willing  the  Master  doth  work,  willing  too  seemeth  the  maid;  — 
For  she  keeps  asking:  What  is  the  name  of  this  thing  in  English  ? 

So  I  utter  the  sounds  which  she  attempts  to  repeat ; 
O'er  the  rough  vocables  then  she  skips  like  a  brook  over  boulders — 

Still  her  stammer  I  love,  for  it  is  fair  as  herself, 
Even  new  beauty  reveals,  for  she  always  resembles  ( 'astalia 

When  a  rock  may  be  cast  into  the  flow  of  its  stream: 
For  it  will  ripple  and  warble  around  the  ugly  intruder, 

Making  a  melody  new  sung  fronithe  rill  of  the  Muse; 
Were  there  naught  in  the  way  of  the  stream,  the  beautiful  water 

Onward  would  flow  in  its  course,  lisping  not  even  a  note, 
But  with  the  babble  and  dash  of  its  drops  now  a  hymn  it  is  singing 

In  the  struggle  it  makes  for  its  own  happy  repose. 
Often  merely  a  pebble  thrown  into  pearly  Castalia 

Tunes  her  to  sweetest  of  notes  which  she  before  never  sang. 
So  in  that  streamlet  I  throw  a  large  stone  or  perchance  a  small  pebble, 

Which  the  clear  waters  embrace  with  a  pellucid  soft  throb. 
Such  is  the  wa}-  that  I  teach  Elpinike  the  words  of  my  language, 

Which  with  her  musical  breath  she  doth  convert  to  a  song. 
Sweet  are  all  her  mistakes  for  they  drip  with  melodious  honey, 

Sweeter  by  far  is  her  mouth  twisted  to  utter  my  words, 
And  the  rude  sounds  of  my  voice  that  through  her  soft  lips  are  but 
spoken 

Changed  are  at  once  to  a  strain  that  hath  the  breath  of  the  Muse. 
But  the  day  on  which  the  Greek  maiden  has  learned  to  talk  English, 
Shall  a  holiday  be  for  the  whole  Delphian  world, 


JElpinike.  89 

And  a  great  pomp  of  the  God  that  moves  with  the  notes  of  high  music 
I  myself  shall  arrange  to  an  Olympian  hymn. 

9. 

Industry  sends  not  the  cloud  of  its  smoke  through  the  Delphian  valley, 

The  black  vomit  of  coal  is  not  beheld  from  high  flues. 
Nor  can  be  heard  the  unmusical  hum  that  floats  from  great  cities, 

Crazing  the  ear  and  the  soul  with  the  mad  sounds  of  unrest. 
Not  a  wagon  is  here,  not  even  two  wheels  with  their  axle ; 

And  if  they  were  now  here,  there  is  no  road  in  the  town. 
No,  not  the  hub  of  a  cart  can  be  found  in  the  precincts  of  Delphi, 

Merely  a  sculptured  wheel  once  I  beheld  on  a  stone. 
So  from  these  ways  is  absent  vehicular  rumble  and  rattle, 

Dust  defiles  not  the  robes,  silver  and  green,  of  the  trees, 
Nor  does  soot  in  the  Heavens  besmirch  the  gold  beams  of  Apollo, 

Nor  on  Earth  does  it  soil  here  the  white  folds  of  the  youths 
And  of  the  maids  as  they  joyously  move  to  the  step  of  the  chorus  : 

Heaven  and  Earth  are  two  notes  blent  into  one  sweet  accord. 
Marble  would  glisten  to-day,  as  if  it  were  in  the  old  temple 

AVhich  on  this  hillside  was  perched  with  the  bright  column  and  frieze ; 
Many  the  far-darting  gleams  it  would  send  down  over  the  valley, 

On  every  sunbeam  a  thrill  thence  it  would  pulse  to  the  eye. 
Nor  has  Castalia,  pure  virgin,  been  soiled  by  the  ooze  of  the  sewer, 

But  the  sweet  Nymph  has  a  face  sparkling,  translucent  with  smiles. 
Steam,  the  rude  blower  and  putter,  and  always  in  a  great  hurry 

Has  not  disturbed  the  repose  that  still  envelopes  these  hills. 
What  then  is  here,  dost  thou  ask?  Let  me  tell  thee — 'tis  the  glad  Olives, 


90  Elpinilie. 

'Tis  the  poetical  life,  visions  outside  of  the  world, 
'Tis  the  iair  setting  of  Nature  for  each  appearance  of  beauty, 

"Tis  the  hymn  that  is  sung  both  by  us  mortals  and  Gods. 
Also  still  here  are  the  folds  and  the  form  of  divine  Elpinike, 

Fairest  of  maids  on  the  Earth,  dream  of  what  Helen  once  was. 
Smut  from  Industry's  chimney,  dust  from  Commerce's  highway, 

Have  not  blotched  her  pure  robes,  have  not  begrimed  her  white  limbs. 


Elpinike.  91 


CYCLET  SECOND. 
1. 

Ask  me  not  what  I  am  going  to  do  on  the  morrow — 

"Whether  I  Delphi  shall  leave,  or  shall  remain  yet  awhile — 
I  do  not  know,  Good  Host,  for  I  can  not  form  any  purpose  :     

All  my  intentions  are  bound  with  the  tight  cords  of  a  God  ; 
'Tis  a  small  merry  God  whose  life  is  merely  to  dally, 

Yet  his  wee  little  arms  strong  are  as  Hercules'  limbs. 
To  the  endless  caprice  of  his  wings  on  1113-  back  I  am  fastened, 

Ever  together  we  sport  round  the  new  flowers  of  Spring, 
And  we  scent  in  each  blossom  the  freshest  Parnassian  fragrance, 

Even  the  honey  we  sip,  dripping  it  into  a  hymn. 
Only  so  much  of  myself  I  can  tell  thee  :  down  to  the  Olives 

Once  at  least  I  shall  go,  there  fondly  wasting  the  hours. 
For  there  always  the  maidens  are  near,  and  still  nearer  is  dreamland- 

Both  even  melt  into  one  under  the  dance  of  the  leaves. 
There  I  lie  on  the  grass  by  the  runnel  of  pearly  Castalia 

Mid  the  trees,  while  I  list  to  the  small  voices  of  Nymphs, 
If  perchance  some  low  little  whisper  of  theirs  may  be  uttered, 

That  will  redouble  my  joy,  turning  the  minutes  to  hymns. 
Long  in  waiting  I  lie  without  any  note  of  their  presence, 

Till  Elpinike  appear  on  the  green  brink  of  the  stream. 


92  mpinike. 

Then  at  once  the  coy  Nymphs  are  starting  to  rise  from  the  water, 

Graceful  and  joyous  they  rise  out  of  the  ripple  serene; 
Softly  the  lilies  are  peering  above  the  crystalline  surface, 

And  their  bosoms  unfold  whitest  Parnassian  snows; 
All  undraped  are  their  forms  of  delight — sweet  Nature's  own  daughters, 

Born  now  into  the  world,  loosed  from  the  trammels  of  shame 
Which  jealous  custom  has  thrown  over  beauty.     But  in  Castalia 

They  are  free  from  their  bonds,  free  from  the  prison  of  clothes. 
This  is  the  reason  why  so  intently  I  peer  in  that  fountain  ; 
-e   For  some  bathers  divine  always  I  see  in  its  depths. 
Out  of  the  long  dripping  tresses  of  jet  they  are  pressing  the  water ; 

Mark  the  hands  softly  white  laid  on  the  locks  that  are  dark. 
Under  the  glassy  transparency  purling  over  the  pebbles 

I  behold  the  fair  limbs  tremulous  in  the  clear  wave  : 
Quite  enough  of  Olympian  beauty  to  wake  soft  suggestion, 

As  the  outlines  of  white  swim  in  the  wavering  stream. 
Slowly  they  come  up  the  shelve  of  the  bank  from  the  watery  mirror, 

Shining  their  bodies  arise,  marbles  that  move  into  life, 
And  at  each  step  they  bring  to  the  vision  fresh  raptures,  revealing 

Some  new  perfection  of  form  hitherto   lost  in  the  wave. 
There  at  last  all  the  Nymphs  of  the  stream  are  standing  before  me, 

As  the  Goddesses  stood  once  before  Paris  the  judge 
Judging  the  boon  of  the  world.     The  hours  have  flown  into  seconds, 

Time  has  a  thousand  new  wings  freshly  put  on  for  his  flight, 
While  I  am  lying  and  looking,  entranced  in  Olympian  visions : 

Life  is  with  them  too  short,  yet  is  without  them  too  long. 
Smite  me  dead  at  this  view,  I  would  pray,  that  never  another 


Elpinike.  93 

May  hereafter  intrude  into  the  scope  of  mine  eye ; 
Or  this  lot  would  I  choose,  Oh  mysterious  fates  of  existence, 

Let  me  eternally  live  Avith  this  lair  dream  in  my  soul; 
For  the  dull  life  of  man  ma}*  be  worth  immortality's  dower, 

If  it  some  image  embalm  that  is  immortal  in  joy. 
Such  are  the  beautiful  shapes  that  start  up  from  the  brook  of  Castalia, 

When  on  the  brink  thou  dost  stand,  Oh  Elpinikc  my  lair, 
At  my  side  here  under  the  Olives,  the  famous  green  sproutlings, 

Which  at  the  view  of  the  Nymphs  quiver  with  love  in  each  leaf. 

2. 

Notice,  Oh  Dearest,  this  marble  that  lies  in  the  vineyard. 

Stained  with  the  rust  of  the  years,  gnawed  by  the  frost  and  the  rain  ; 
Yet  in  old  Delphian  days  it  was  perfect  and  white  as  the  linen 

Which  then  shrouded  the  form  laid  in  its  snowy  embrace. 
This  was  the  lid  of  the  tomb  and  on  it  is  sculptured  the  princess — 

She  who  once  must  have  lived,  hence  she  who  once  must  have  loved. 
Still  in  the  stone  you  can  see  the  white  folds  wave  down  her  fair  body, 

As  on  the  cushion  she  lies  propping  her  head  with  her  arm; 
And  the  neat  zone  round  her  waist  hath  the  span  of  the  hand  of  a  lover 

Just  beneath  the  shy  breasts  swoln  with  the  first  thought  of  youth. 
From  the  hem  of  the  loose-flowing  vestment  is  peering  the  ankle. 

While  the  lines  of  the  limbs  upwards  are  traced  in  the  folds. 
lUit  the  soft  curves  of  her  body  are  only  alive  in  this  fragment, 

The  fond  clasp  of  those  arms  long  since  has  fallen  to  dust, 
And  the  hue  of  the  eyes,  once  brimming  with  flashes  of  Eros, 

Now  forever  is  lost  in  an  impassive  blank  stare  ; 


94  K I  pin  ike. 

What  thinkest  thou  has  become  of  the  millions  on  millions  of  treasure 

That  poured  out  of  those  lips  at  the  low  whisper  of  love  ? 
Lost,  all  lost  forever  and  ever.     Come  then,  and  quickly  • 

For  each  moment  is  winged  bearing  away  in  its  flight 
Opportunity  :  life  is  the  use  of  opportune  moments; 

Swift,  now  give  me  thine  eyes  raying  with  sweetest  desire ; 
And,  may  I  ask  it  ? — with  violence  throw  thy  embraces  around  me 

That  I  may  see  in  thy  glance  all  the  bright  rainbows  of  life, 
And  be  chained  to  thy  breast  in  the  tight  living  links  of  thy  letters, 
-  Ere  thy  body  be  chilled  into  this  stone  on  a  tomb. 
Earth  is  the  happy  abode  of  love  with  its  fount  of  caresses: 

L^ 

.f+    Hades  will  cut  them  all  off — quick,  let  each  minute  be  gain. 

3. 

'Tie  not  every  day  Elpinike  I  find  in  gay  humor  : 

For  sometimes  she  looks  back  to  her  bright  days  in  the  past ; 
Eetrospection  for  all  is  a  sigh-heaving  work  of  the  spirit, 

But  for  the  Grecian  maid  doubly  redoubles  the  pang. 
"  See  yon  dwelling,  inwards  have  fallen  the  roof  and  the  rafters, 

Only  the  walls  now  stand — they  t<>;>  are  rifted  with  creaks. 
.\Tany  a  tendril  and  vine  have  begun  to  creep  over  the  ruins, 

In  their  luxuriant  folds  soon  will  be  hidden  each  stone. 
Once  we  there  lived,  and  yet  can  be  seen  the  form  of  my  lattice 

Which  the  foliage  trains  still  to  its  winding  embrace. 
Everywhere  overgrown  is  my  garden  with  weeds  and  with  brambles. 

Though  pretty  flowers  peep  out  from  the  rank  growth  of  the  soil. 
But  behold  here  also  the  fragments  of  some  ancient  temple 


Elpinike.  95 

That  once  stood  on  this  spot,  far  overlooking  the  vale ; 
Never  again  will  a  mortal  be  able  to  put  them  together 

Into  the  whole  of  that  fane  as  it  once  rose  on  this  height. 
Over  the  hill-side  are  scattered  the  beautiful  bits  of  white  marble, 

Often  I  gather  them  still,  piece  them  in  fancy  to  one. 
They  were  broken  by  Seismos,  the  dark-minded  shaker  of  Delphi, 

Once  he  the  temple  destroyed,  he  is  our  enenvy  yet; 
Even  our  modest  abode  he  smote  and  upheaved  in  his  anger; 

Here  deserted  it  lies,  still  by  the  creepers  beloved. 
Often  my  lather  has  told  me  with  sighs,  this  house  was  my  dower, 

All  the  wealth  that  I  had  now  is  reduced  to  these  stones, 
And  my  inheritance,  splendid  of  old,  is  invested  in  ruins — 

Seismos  my  dower  has  seized,  dowerless  now  I  am  left. 
Once  I  possessed  for  myself  this  beautiful  dwelling  and  garden, 

.Many  suitors  I  had  from  all  Parnassian   towns, 
AVhen  to  my  Delphian  home  there  came  the  hour  of  convulsion  ; 

Xo\v  all  alone  I  must  mourn  left  a  poor  dowerless  maid." — 
Cease  thy  plaint,  Elpinike,  sorrow  becomes  not  thy  presence; — 

Think  a  dower  thou  hast  richer  than  any  on  earth. 
Has  not  the  world  ever  wooed  thee,  and  sought  to  inherit  thy  beauty  ? 

Seismos  may  rave  in  his  wrath,  thou  in  thy  ruins  hast  ail. 
Part  of  thy  wealth  may  be  wasted,  stili  thou  art  queen  of  Parnassus, 

Holding  melodious  sway  over  the  songs  of  its  youths  ; 
Ljook  now  at  me  who  have  crossed  the  broad  ocean  simply  to  hee  thee, 

Simply  to  cany  thy  face  back  to  my  home  in  my  soul. 


96  Elpinikc. 

4. 

Here  in  this  alley  there  lies  the  fragment  of  some  ancient  column, 

Half  imbedded  in  soil,  tipped  to  one  side  in  its  foil  ; 
See  the  shape  of  the  flower  there  sculptured  in  happiest  outline, 

Just  in  the  bloom  of  its  growth  with  all  the  leaves  on  the  stalk. 
Even  in  marble  it  has  a  fresh  look  as  if  blowing  in  springtide, 

Though  rude  handfuls  of  Time  long  have  been  flung  on  its  form; 
Gently  it  clings  to  the  stone  and  lovingly  winds  round  the  pillar, 

Yet  it  turns  to  my  glance  with  a  soft  smile  in  its  eye. 
So  art  thou,  divine  Elpinike,  the  flower  of  Delphi, 

Ancient  thou  art,  I  should  say,  just  in  the  bud  of  thy  youth  ; 
For  if  the  Delphian  priestess  now  were  alive  in  her  beauty, 

She  thy  form  would  assume,  robed  in  the  waves  of  white  folds. 
But  though  so  3'oung,  thou  art  hid,  methinks  in  the  ages  of  Delphi, 

Beautiful  flower  in  stone  sprung  from  a  fancy  of  old. 
Note  but  this  leaf,  how  graceful  it  lies  in  the  curve  of  the  marble ; 

Then  another  succeeds — half  of  it  only  you  see ; 
Then  still  further  below  is  beheld  the  mere  tip  of  a  leaflet, 

All  the  others  are  hid  in  the  dark  tomb  of  the  ground. 
But  the  day  will  come  when  the  leaves  shall  leap  from  their  cover, 

And  the  day  will  come  when  Elpinike  shall  bloom. 
Xow  T  am  going  to  dig  from  the  rubbish  this  column  of  flowers. 

Piece  together  its  parts,  cleanse  from  the  dirt  every  line, 
Set  up  the  column  in  light  that  again  it  may  sun  itself  proudly  : 

Then  what  a  fragrance  will  rise  out  of  that  flowery  shaft  ! 


Elpihike.  97 

5. 

Tis  not  the  tirst,  not  the  second  nor  third  time  that  I  have  listened 

To  the  tale  of  thy  dreams — was  Elpinike's  reply. 
This  is  the  reason  I  love  thee ;  because  thou  art  a  good  dreamer. 

And  because  thou  canst  dream  better  awake  than  asleep. 
Xow  it  is  my  turn — list  then  while  I  shall  tell  thee  a  vision 

"Which  ingrains  all  my  life  both  in  the  day-time  and  night. 
Once  mid  these  hills  and  valleys  I  passed  a  sunny  existence, 

Though  between  now  and  then  ages  have  thrust  all  their  wrath. 
Full  of  action  heroic  a  youth  I  sprang  down  the  mountain, 

In  each  motion  of  limb  felt  I  the  might  of  a  God; 
And  as  I  wrought,  I  sang  in  harmonious  measures  of  beauty, 

To  my  action  I  sang  fitting  the  voice  to  the  hand. 
Nay,  each  feat,  each  movement  dropped  of  itself  into  music, 

Every  deed  was  a  song,  every  song  was  a  deed. 
Suddenly  then  on  the  side  of  these  hills  I  was  changed  to  a  flower, 

Flower  that  merely  was  fair  while  here  inactive  it  bloomed. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  years  I  continued  to  grow  on  the  hill-side, 

All  men  my  beauty  admired,  sought  me  often  to  pluck; 
Some  dug  me  out  by  the  i-oots  and  bore  me  to  far-distant  countries, 

For  a  while  I  would  thrive  nursed  in  the  warmth  of  their  love. 
Still  of  the  pang  I  never  was  rid  that  I  dwelt  among  strangers, 

So  I  wilted  at  heart — then  I  would  die  from  the  soil. 
But  when  elsewhere  I  drooped  I  continued  to  bloom  on  Parnassus, 

And  my  fragrance  I  threw  into  each  nook  of  the  world. 
But  the}'  treated  me  as  they  would  treat  some  small  pretty  flower, 


D8  Elpinike. 

They  would  sport  with  my  buds,  breathe  in  my  heart's  rich  perfume, 
And  would  admire  the  shape  of  my  leaves  bedewed  of  the  Graces, 

Oft  in  their  rude  native  clay  sought  they  to  copy  my  form. 
Oh  how  tired  I  grew  of  being  forever  a  flower, 

Longed  for  sinews  and  blood,  longed  for  the  man-making  deed  ! 
Once  1  dreamed  that  I  rose  like  a  youth — the  ancient  Achilles — 

For  the  armor  I  sprang,  though  in  UK'  dress  of  a  maid  ; 
Over  the  tops  of  the  hills  there  came  to  me  blasts  of  a  trumpet 

Calling  me  back  to  the  life  which  I  once  led  in  the  world; 
Up  from  the  ground  leaped  the  flower — anew  T  was  storming  old  Ilium, 

Nobly  I  sang  of  my  act,  nobly  I  acted  my  song. 
But  again  I  was  slain  by  divine  irreversible  arrow — 

Then  with  my  death  I  awoke,  just  as  to  Hades  I  fell. 
Still  in  my  heart,  though  awake  I  may  be,  T  have  a  deep  longing, 

For — I  can  not  tell  what — still  a  deep  longing  I  have. 

6. 
As  I  arose  from  my  cot,  I  had  a  disgust  this  morning, 

Which  had  crept  in  my  soul  during  the  visions  of  night, 
And  I  said  to  myself:  "To-day  I'll  not  Tnake  any  poems, 

For  I  am  tired  to  death,  dreaming  so  much  in  the  sun. 
Of  the  ceaseless  procession  of  fancies  fully  I'm  sated, 

Proper  it  is  some  rest  now  I  should  have  from  the  throng; 
Grant  me  a  day  without  the  Muses,  without  the  Greek  maiden, 

Oh  for  one  day  of  repose,  free  from  the  Olives  and  leaves  ! 
Let  Castalia  flow  down  to  the  sea  without  giving  me  trouble, 

And  the  Nymphs  in  the  rill  bathe  out  of  reach  of  mine  eye."- 


Elpinike.  99 

So  my  course  1  direct  to  the  rocks,  the  bare  rocks  on  the  mountain, 

And  as  l>are  as  a  rock  is  the  \vliite  page  of  my  brain. 
Also  to  Kris.su  I  go.  prosaic  in  dress  and  in  customs, 

Freed  from  the  memories  old  which  on  the  Delphian  stones 
.\iv  engraved  everywhere  that   they  speak  Avith  the  breath  of  Apollo: 

Xo\v  mine  ears  I  have  stopped  to  the  sweet  notes  of  their  voice. 
Then  I  scourge  from  my  presence  each  rapturous  child  of  my  fancy, 

Till  in  terror  it  flies,  seeking  a  nook  in  the  clouds; 
Almost  with  anger  out  of  the  air  1  smite  every  image 

That  tor  a  moment  may  dance,  trying  to  flatter  mine  eye. 
But  above  all  other  shapes   Klpinike  I  shunned  in  the  Oli\v>. 

During  one  day  I  resolved  not  to  behold  the  Greek  maid. 
Strictly  my  promise  I  kept  until  the  first  shade  of  the  nightfall, 

When  I  Avent  by  the  spring,  thinking  of  nought  in  my  mood. 
There  she  was  standing  right  in  the  line  of  im~  CA'e — the  enchantress — 

O          O  .  «.  «. 

Purpose  melted  away  like  a  thin  frost  in  the  sun. 
Home  I  am  driven  amid  the  incessant  Avild  dance  of  the  A'isions 

That  had  snapped  the  Aveak  thread  Avhich  them  had  tied  in  their  cells ; 
All  the  orgies  of  fancy  broke  loose  in  a  fierce  Bacchic  frenzy, 

To  revenge  the  restraint  put  on  one  Delphian  da}'. 
Bring  me  a  light,  Oh  hostess — where  is  my  paper  and  pencil? 

For  these  riotous  >hapes  I  must  enchain  in  my  verse  : 
Ere  they  will  cease  I  must  cast  them  in  musical  tar-shining  fetters: 

If  the  right  word  1  can  catch,  then  I  am  treed  from  their  throng. 


100  Elpinike. 

7. 

Mockeiy  was  to-night  the  new  strain  of  bright  Elpinike, 

Grecian  mockery  too,  drenching  me  through  with  its  spray ; 
And  there  was  salt  in  that  dash  of  her  spirits  from  oceans  of  humor, 

Nor  could  refuge  I  find  as  it  would  splash  in  my  face. 
First  she  mocked  my  gait  with  the  strut  and  stride  of  an  actor, 

Then  my  titter  she  mocked  with  a  low  titter  herself; 
Turns  of  my  head,  the  roll  of  mine  eye,  my  hands'  thoughtless  gesture' 

Ateo  my  Humph  and  my  Ha — even  my  silence  she  mocked. 
So  I  was  forced  to  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror  of  Com  us; 

And  my  accejit  I  heard,  say  what  I  might  to  that  Greek  : 
All  the  tAvists  and  turns  of  my  tongue  in  speaking  her  language 

Were  thrown  back  on  my  ear  trebly  contorted  and  gnarled, 
While  a  thousandfold  mimicry  wantonly  played  in  her  features, 

To  the  words  of  her  speech  adding  much  salt  of  their  own. 
Truly  to-day  tart  Comedy's  Muse  held  sway  in  Castalia, 

And  from  the  fount  to  the  maid  handed  a  mask  as  she  drank, 
Early  this  morning,  when  from  the  village  she  passed  to  the  Olives : 

For  each  morning  she  drinks  out  of  a  wonderful  cup 
Wrought  both  outside  and  inside  with  many  a  figure  of  fancy; 

E'en  on  the  rim  the  clear  draught  touches  her  lips  through  a  dance 
Wreathed  of  the  bodies  of  maidens  and  youths  to  a  circle  of  garlands 

Whom  the  Graces  bedew  with  all  their  fragrance  of  form. 
Also  the  cup  is  reached  by  a  Muse  to  her  out  of  the  fountain 

Bubbling  forth  from  the  depths,  dark  and  unknown,  of  the  Earth. 


Elpinike.  101 

Every  day  from  some  one  of  the  Sisters  she  hath  inspiration, 

As  from  the  beaker  of  pearls  she  may  have  drunk  in  the  morn. 
So  the  Nine  take  turns  in  the  gift  that  her  days  may  all  differ : 

Thus  her  laborious  hours  lined  are  with  poesy's  dreams, 
And  in  each  jet  of  her  humor  there  plays  a  poetical  rainbow 

Leaping  in  bright-colored  mirth  out  of  my  reach  to  the  skies. 
There — just  now  she  was  mocking  me  whilst  I  spoke  of  the  Muses  : — 

Then  the  Olives  she  mocks — mocks  e'en  my  love  for  herself. 
But  at  last  I  caught  her  and  kissed  her :  "  Mock  that,  merry  mocker, 

Just  as  oft  as  you  wish  "  ;  only  my  language  she  mocked. 

8. 
Certainly  all  the  hours  of  to-day  I  was  laughed  at  by  Eros, 

For  the  triumphant  young  scamp  led  me  astray  from  my  plan. 
As  I  sauntered  along,  projecting  a  new  mighty  poem 

That  would  reveal  all  the  Gods,  mysteries  deep  would  unfold, 
That  would  the  universe  set  to  new  music  and  make  me  immortal, — 

Into  the  Olives  I  strolled,  secretly  fanned  by  his  wings. 
Suddenly  there,  as  I  wandered  around,  I  met  Elpinike  : 

Eros,  the  rogue,  was  my  guide,  always  he  plays  me  such  pranks. 
Xot  a  step  further  I  went,  I  could  not  move  a  step  further ; 

There  I  had  to  remain  till  of  his  spell  I  was  free. 
So  the  flexible  rod  I  grasped,  and  then  began  beating 

• 

On  the  limbs  of  the  trees  till  the  ripe  berries  would  fall ; 
Long  I  labored  and  hard,  for  under  the  branches  the  maiden 

O  t 

Was  with  her  mother  at  work,  picking  the  fruit  from  the  ground. 
*When  every  twig  of  the  tree  I  had  bared  of  its  delicate  burden, 


102  Elpinlke. 

And  a  dark  layer  of  fruit  wound  through  the  blades  «>f  the  grain, 
Then  for  hours  I  stooped  and  helped  to  gather  the  berries : 

Simply  a  look  was  my  pay,  furtively  wreathed  in  a  smile. 
As  her  hood  she  adjusted  over  her  ehin  and  her  forehead. 

'Always  trying  to  hide  what  she  was  careful  to  show. 
Meanwhile  I  was  attentively  talking  to  the  dear  mother 

Of  small  things  far  away;  mothers  have  also  their  charm. 
Thus  I  was  bound  in  a  chain  that  was  linked  with  successions  of  glances 

There  the  trees  underneath,  nor  could  I  stir  from  the  spot. 
Freedom's  wildest  delight  I  had  in  the  trammels  of  prison, 
**•  All  the  while  too  a  hymn  swelled  in  my  bosom  suppressed. 
While  I  was  thralled  beneath  the  green  leaves  in  the  laugh  of  his  fetter-. 

Eros  fluttered  in  sport  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  : 
Often  I  saw  just  the  tip  of  his  wing  or  the  point  of  his  arrow. 

As  he  would  flit  through  the  twigs,  leaving  a  radiant  film 
That  would  hang  in  the  air  for  a  moment  then  pass  into  nothing; 

When  I  looked  for  his  form,  always  he  vanished  away. 
Often  too  over  my  head  I  heard  the  low  chuck  of  his  titter, 

AS  he  Avould  giggle  in  glee,  mocking  my  limbs  in  the  gyves. 
So  the  young  scapegrace  till  nightfall  o'er  me  continued  to  triumph. 

Badgered  me  there  with  his  jibes  as  I  lay  helpless  in  bonds ; 
And  instead  of  the  mighty  magnificent  poem  I  planned  there. 

Xow  I  have  written  these  small  silliest  verses  of  love 

-. 

Dictated  madly  by  him.  the  tyrant  of  soul  and  of  body: 
Only  disgust  I  can  feel  now  as  the  poem  I  read. 


Elpinike.  103 

9. 
A  new  maiden  I  met  in  niy  stroll  through  the  Olives  —Stephane ; 

She  had  one  eye  of  blue  that  in  its  depth  showed  a  sky, 
While  the  other  was  black  and  was  lit  with  fiery  glances; 

Eros  had  into  them  both  shot  all  the  might  of  his  dart. 
When  I  went  up  and  talked  to  the  maid.  I  was  greatly  embarassed 

Which  of  the  eyes  to  address,  each  one  demanding  my  look; 
Each  was  a  jealous  tyrant,  shamefully  lording  the  other. 

Each  had  a  spy  of  her  acts  following  just  at  her  side. 
Each  of  those  spheres  I  loved  all  alone,  but  both  not  together,     -*"" 

Separate  each  I  would  seek,  both  I  would  flee  for  my  life. 
'Tis  not  easy  to  manage  two  lovers  though  kept  far  asunder, 

But  if  they  happen  to  meet  both  may  be  lost  by  a  look. 
"What  a  torture  I  felt  in  answering  tAvo  diverse  glances ! 

For  whichever  I  chose,  that  was  the  end  of  my  joy. 
Only  when  into  the  one  burning  look  two  eyes  may  be  melted, 

Is  the  fervor  redoubled  till  it  flames  down  to  the  soul. 
But  alas !  now  the  glances  are  twain — to  each  other  are  hostile — 

With  two  looks  from  one  face,  tell  me,  I  pray,  what  to  do. 
This  misfortune,  however,  was  not  the  end  of  my  troubles : 

Elpinike  me  saw  as  I  conversed  with  that  maid. 
Jealousy  then  for  the  first  time  she  showed  in  a  frown  on  her  visage, 

Saying  :  which  eye  dost  thou  love — is  it  the  blue  or  the  black  ? 
In  one  body  Stephane  encloses  two  souls,  each  pulling  asunder : 

lla.  two  sweethearts  in  one  fine  it  must  be  to  possess. 
Wive  her.  I  pray  thee.  and  then  thou  wilt  have  two  wives  in  thy 
household. 


104  Elpin-ike. 

Though  her  sweet  person  be  one  in  the  embrace  of  thine  arms; 
And  whenever  she  looks  in  thine  eyes  that  are  brimming  with  rapture, 

I  defy  thee  to  tell  which  of  thy  wives  it  may  be. 
So  thy  kisses  must  always  be  halved  for  concord  domestic, 

Lest  the  one  of  her  looks  eat  up  the  other  in  wrath. 
In  that  quarrel  of  glances  thy  life  will  be  merry  with  asking  : 

Please  now,  what  says  the  blue  ?  what  says  the  black,  if  it  please  ? 
Go  thy  ways — thou  art  double  thyself  as  the  eyes  of  Stephane, 

Thy  false  heart  has  two  beats,  thou  hast  two  masks  in  one  face. 

10. 
Thrice  already  have  I  resolved  on  departure  from  Delphi, 

Thrice  has  my  purpose  been  smit  by  the  strong  hand  of  a  God, 
So  that  it  prostrate  has  lain  in  my  bosom  and  helplessly  quivered, 

Faint  were  its  struggles  to  rise  after  that  blow  from  above. 
But  again  there  comes  to  my  soul  the  pang  of  decision, 

For  the  hours  of  my  stay  haste  to  their  limit  in  time  ; 
Shall  I  remain  still  longer,  or  shall  I  set  out  to-morrow  ? 

Shall  I  quit  the  bright  fount  with  all  its  pearls  unstrung  ? 
Shall  I  suddenly  leave  the  fair  image  and  stop  making  poems  ? 

Shall  the  Delphian  days  live  or  be  changed  to  a  dream  ? 
Now  in  my  life  they  are  real,  deep-linked  in  the  chain  of  my  moments, 

But  they  must  lapse  when  I  leave  into  pale  Memory's  shades. 
Yet  it  is  time  I  should  start.     By  my  thoughts  torn  asunder, 

I  go  down  to  the  vale,  under  the  Olives  I  walk; 
Every  leaflet  is  stirring  its  wings  to  fly  from  the  tree  tops, 


Elpinike.  105 

Pinions  to  me  it  doth  give  that  I  take  part  in  its  flight; 
And  the  green  millions  with  silver-starred  sparkle  now  dance  in  the 
sunlight, 

Till  their  lustre  and  sport  seem  to  be  part  of  myself. 
Under  the  fairest  young  tree  now  I  saunter — I  find  Elpinike — 

Purpose  again  is  laid  out  by  a  soft  dart  of  the  God. 


CYCLET  THIED. 
1. 

Cast  thy  look  upwards — yonder  glistens  the  snow  of  Parnassus, 

Downward  now  let  it  fall — there  is  the  glow  of  the  rays  ; 
Winter  thou  seest  above,  while  below  in  the  vale  is  the  summer, 

Both  an  influence  fair  lend  to  the  eye  and  the  soul. 
But  at  my  feet  here  cometh  the  spring  leaping  out  of  the  mountain, 

With  young  flowers  and  buds  in  his  soft  finger-tips  held. 
Seasons  now  fly  not  in  terror  away  from  the  face  of  each  other, 

But  together  they  dwell,  for  they  are  brothered  in  joy, 
And  to-day  they  are  dressed  in  light  folds  of  azure  translucencc — 

All  can  be  seen  through  the  haze,  yet  too  the  haze  can  !>r  seen. 
The  bright  world  is  beheld  in  a  dream  behind  its  blue  curtain. 

Still  that  curtain  so  fine  wondrously  too  is  beheld ; 
While  it  is  subtly  revealing  tail-  Nature,  itself  is  revealed, 

While  it  others  adorns,  'tis  thus  adorned  itself. 

» 
So  art  thou,  Elpinike,  here  in  the  midst  of  the  Olives, 

Through  thee  I  see  all  the  world,  clearly  reflected  and  new ; 
The  old  Earth  has  become  a  new  planet  in  thee  discovered, 

I  a  new  person  am  born,  born  while  I  gaze  in  thine  eyes  ; 
All  is  seen  with  new  vision  and  is  enrobed  in  new  colors, 

Which  do  not  hide  or  distort,  but  which  reveal  what  is  true  ; 


Elpinike.  107 

And  at  the  same  time,  thee  Elpinike,  sweet  mirror  of  Xature, 
Thee  I  behold  in  thyself  while  in  thee  all  I  behold. 


Thou  hast  read  me.  Oh  friend,  thy  new  poem,  —  replied  Elpinike, 

And  translated  it  too,  still  1  can  not  understand; 
Surely  fhou  wert  possessed  when  writing  to-day  by  a  spirit 

From  thy  home  far  away;  here  it  belongs  not,  I  know. 
For  in  Hellas  we  dip  each  word  in  the  beams  of  Apollo, 

That  they  illume  what  the}-  touch  while  too  they  shine  of  themselves. 
Look  at  yon  Olive  that  stands  on  the  edge  of  steep  Pappadeia 

Where  the  cleft  descends  hundreds  of  feet  straight  down  ; 
Over  the  dismal  abyss  more  than  half  of  the  tree  is  inclining, 

While  its  stubborn  roots  grapple  for  help  in  the  rocks. 
J5ut  the  fruit,  the  fair  crop  of  the  branches,  drops  off  in  the  chasm, 

Where  it  is  dark  as  night,  nought  can  be  seen  from  the  top; 
And  for  man  there  is  no  descent,  whatever  his  courage. 

Into  that  depth  below  —  steep  as  a  line  is  the  wall  ; 
Nor  dui-st  any  one  venture  to  climb  on  the  limbs  for  the  berries, 

Lest  the  treacherous  tree  loosen  its  grasp  from  the  brink. 
Thus  all  its  Olive?  are  wasted  because  they  fall  into  darkness, 

Vet  they  are  good  as  the  rest,  excellent  dainties  would  make, 
And  tK-y  would  serve  well  to  nourish  the  voice  of  the  singer 

Who  doth  sing  at  the  feast  hymns  full  of  Delphic  delight. 
But  not  a  man  will  descend  to  that  gloom  —  much  less  will  a  woman: 

Thus  are  thy  words  sometimes,  just  like  those  Olives,  1113-  friend. 
For  they  fall  down  deep  into  darkness,  said  Elpinike, 


108  ElpinlTfe. 

Whence  I  can  not  for  my  life  gather  their  forms  or  their  sense. 
So,  let  me  frankly  confess  to  thy  lace,  were  also  thy  verses 

Which  you  wer£~rejtiing  just  now — Olives  that  fell  in  the  gorge. 
They  may  be  good,  but  so  deep  they  lie  that  I  can  not  get  at  them ; 

How  I  quake  to  go  down  into  that  ray  less  abyss 
Where  they  are  lodged  now !  Think,  but  a  woman  1  am.  a  Greek  maiden 

Gloomy  depths  I  avoid — give  me  my  place  in  the  sun 
Making  the  world  as  cheerful  and  bright  as  a  temple  of  marble  : 

Oh  the  dark  chasms  of  soul,  worse  them  I  hate  than  this  gorge  ! 

3. 

Look,  Oh  dearest,  away  from  this  summit  down  into  yon  valley  ! 

There  is  the  mantle  of  haze  spread  o'er  the  Olives  and  plain ; 
From  the  heights  far  above,  it  reaches  below  to  the  waters 

Of  the  Corinthian  Sea  lying  in  azure  repose. 
Xear  us  light  blue  is  the  mountain  j  deep  blue  it  grows  in  the  distance, 

Whilst  through  the  colors  so  faint,  Helius  scatters  his  gold. 
Why,  thou  askest,  was  made  this  haze,  and  what  is  it  good  for  ? — 

Beautiful  merely  to  be  and  to  delight  with  its  hue. 
For  it  attuneth  the  soul  with  its  quiet  harmonious  grandeur  ; 

All  of  it  thou  must  behold,  else  thou  beholdest  but  naught. 
Near  by  it  will  not  be  seen — only  in  the  aerial  distance 

Canst  thou  observe  its  frail  form,  ever  refusing  the  touch. 
Here  thou  canst  not  say  that  it  is,  nor  point  to  it  vonder 

In  a  particular  spot ;  still  it  exists  and  is  lair. 
So  do  I  feel  when  I  look  on  thy  beauty.  Oh  Elpinike, 

I  can  not  say  that  it  lies  in  thy  sweet  lips  or  tin*  cheek 


ElpinKe  109 

Or  thy  forehead  ;  I  know  thou  art  fair,  I  question  no  further, 
But  delight  my  fond  eye  viewing  the  whole  of  thy  form. 

I  desire  not  to  seek  for  the  deep-hidden  reason  of  beauty, 

Lest  it  should  vanish  like  haze  when  it  is  sought  to  be  grasped; 

In  thy  presence  I  lose  every  thought — am  transformed  to  pure  vision  ; 
Simply  I  know  thou  art  fair — what  of  thee  more  would  I  know  ? 

4. 
Who  made  the  haze  and  what  he  made  it  for,  are  stupid  questions, 

Any  answer  thereto  I  in  my  soul  do  disdain ; 
Look  !  it  is  one  fair  color  upon  this  picture  of  Xature 

That  is  stretched  till  the  sea  for  the  delight  of  us  all. 
Xot  any  origin  wish  I  to  seek  of  the  beautiful  object, 

Xot  any  use  shall  I  ask  when  it  before  me  doth  lie; 
Simply  I  try  to  surrender  myself  to  its  waters  of  beauty, 

There  unconsciously  float  while  I  am  rocked  to  repose. 
Clouds  are  \vhite,  and  valleys  are  green,  and  mountains  are  mottled, 

Yet  they  all  are  but  one  and  they  excite  but  one  joy. 
Silver-green  are  the  leaves  of  the  Olive,  golden  the  sunbeams, 

But  the  mild  haze  draws  a  veil  wove  of  transparent  light  blue. 
In  the  distance  shineth  the  sea ;  beheld  through  this  curtain, 

In  a  calm  rapture  it  lies  passing  beyond  out  of  sight, 
And  it  speaks  to  the  soul  of  some  tranquil  home  in  the  future 

That  doth  rise  for  away  out  of  the  ken  of  the  Xow, 
Dimly  receding  in  haze,  and  yet  from  this  summit  revealed. 

Hinting  of  worlds  that  have  been,  hinting  of  worlds  still  to  be, 
Whither  the  heart  doth  turn  oftentimes  with  deep  aspiration  :  — 


110  Elpinfte. 

Hold  !  the  Olives  appear,  thither  at  once  let  us  go  ; 
To  this  glorious  world  they  belong — I  seek  not  another, 

Here  is  the  strain  of  the  Muse,  here  is  the  rapture  of  love. 
But  above  all,  thy  form  is  beheld  on  our  Earth,  Elpinike, 

Eound  thee  now  Olives  have  joined  in  the  gay  whirl  of  the  dance; 

i 
See  how  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  sunshine  with  light  palpitation 

Flutter  afar  down  the  mount  full  of  the  joy  of  the  hour  ! 
Under  the  sport  of  the  leaflets  are  winding  the  youths  of  the  chorus, 
There  is  the  home  of  my  heart,  thither  I  pass  through  the  haxe. 

5. 

Often  it  seemeth  to  me  that  Apollo  doth  play  with  his  Delphi, 

• 
Hiding  his  joyous  young  face  merely  for  sport  in  the  clouds 

For  a  few  moments,  till  he  may  see  what  the  \vorld  is  without  him, 

Then  he  throws  off  the  mask,  making  us  laugh  in  his  beams. 
Thrice  to-day  I  attempted  to  stir  from  the  house  when  1  saw  him 

Out  on  the  mountains  above,  dancing  in  glee  o'er  the  tops. 
Thither  I  also  wanted  to  go  and  join  in  that  chorus. 

All  of  sunbeams  composed,  over  Parnassian  heights. 
But  at  once  he  would  dive  in  a  cloud  and  there  remain  hidden, 

Even  some  droplets  of  rain  would  he  dash  down  in  my  face. 
I,  beholding  him  frown  from  his  darkened  throne  in  the  heavens. 

Quickly  returned  to  the  house,  deeming  him  moody  the  while. 
But  as  soon  as  I  passed  in  the  door  and  was  looking  behind  me, 

Shining  he  was  again — laughing  aloud  at  my  fright. 
So  three  times  to-day  he  has  acted. — so.  Elpinikc, 

Thou  hast  acted  to-day,  Delphian  child  of  the  God. 


Elpinike.  Ill 

Km-  thou  hast    told  the  story,  so  pitiful,  of  thy  misfortunes. 

That  I  was  ready  to  weep,  when  just  behind  in  thine  eyes 
I  beheld  the  taint  twinkle  of  smiles  pursuing  each  other, 

So  that  I  answered  their  laugh  right  in  thy  mirror  of  tears. 
Tis  thy  delight  to  make  me  afraid  with  thy  frown  for  a  moment, 

But  the  cloud  in  thy  face  breaks  into  dimples  of  joy. 

6. 
Wretched  hovels  now  hold  the  high  site  of  Apollo's  great  temple. 

Yet  some  walls  can  be  seen  which  of  the  past  try  to  tell; 
But  no  more  we  behold  the  smooth  white  embrace  of  the  columns 

Round  the  cell  of  the  God  which  his  clear  shape  indwelt ; 
And  the  front  of  the  temple  is  gone,  the  far-shining  forehead, 

AVhere  in  sculpture  were  read  deeds  of  the  God  in  his  might; 
Also  the  frieze,  the  soft  fillet  around  the  head  of  the  structure, 

Telling  a  story  of  old  in  a  low  hymn  writ  of  stone, 
Has  been  lost  from  Delphi  along  with  thousands  of  marble-. 

Singing  each  one  some  strain  to  the  Great  Man  or  the  God. — 
Xo.  these  words  are  not  true,  for  I  saw  erewhile  the  old  temple : 

I  can  the  secret  impart  how  thou  canst  see  it  as  well. 
I  was  down  in  the  valley  where  sports  the  orchard  of  Olives, 

Elpinike  was  there — stood  at  my  side  as  I  looked. 
And  she  lent  me  her  beautiful  eyes,  her  soul  too  she  lent  me, 

Bade  me  upward  to  glance  where  was  the  Delphian  town ; 
Through  a  long  verdant  view  enchased  by  the  weft 'of  the  branches 

The  old  temple  I  saw  rise  once  again  in  its  pride ; 
Thither  the  leaves  made  a  framework  ofgracefullest  linos  for  its  splendor, 


112  Elpmilee. 

Through  them  the  marble  upsprang  gleaming  anew  from  the  hill, 
Just  as  fair  Elpinike  began  in  her  smiles  to  enwrap  me, 

And  as  I  felt  her  mild  breath  freighted  with  words  from  her  soul. 
I  looked  up  through  the  twigs  and  the  leaves  and  beheld  ancient  Delphi 

Filled  with  beauty  and  light,  moving  to  measures  of  hymns. 

7. 
Out  on  the  slant  of  the  hill-side  lies  the  old  Delphian  graveyard  : 

By  it  oft  I  must  pass  when  to  the  Olives  I  go  ; 
Ancient  coffins  of  stone  through  the  fields  in  disorder  are  scattered: 

Some  are  just  broken  in  twain  smote  by  a  single  rude  blow. 
Others  have  had  many  blows  from  the  ages  and  crumbled  to  fragments, 

Still  a  few  have  remained  whole  in  the  tempest  of  time. 
But  they  all  are  now  empty  where  once  were  laid  the  dear  bodies. 

Laid  with  many  a  tear  in  the  thick  casket  of  rock, 
Strong  enough  to  preserve  Avhat  it  held  in  its  chamber  forever : 

But  not  e'en  ashes  are  here  speaking  of  life  and  its  sleep. 
How  I  would  like  to  behold  some  one  of  the  shapes  in   its  splendor 

Rise  now  out  of  this  stone,  in  a  new  Delphian  birth, 
And  with  the  flow  of  the  folds  sweep  there  through  the  Halls  of  Apollo, 

Mid  the  high  columns  that  shine  as  in  the  days  of  the  God  ! 
But  the  fair  body  has  perished  in  spite  of  the  strength  of  the  fortress  : 

So  Elpinike  thou  too  mus't  by  dark  Death  be  entombed. 
But  let  us  fly  from  the  thought — let  us  hurry  away  to  the  Olives  : 

There  cheerless  Acheron's  stream  dries  in  the  sheen  of  the  leaves. 
'There  are  the  happy  domains  of  our  Eros  illumed  by  the  sunbeams, 

There  let  us  know  what  is  love,  yielding  to  honeyed  caress 


113 

While  the  Hours  still  lend  us  their  wings  and  bedew  the  sweet  senses : 
For  I  feel  sorely  afraid,  love  may  not  be  after  death ; 

Eros,  the  gladsome,  flees  from  the  gloomy  regard  of  grim  Pluto, 
But  the  Olives  he  seeks  sporting  his  wings  in  the  trees; 

Xor  will  Apollo,  the  light-darter,  descend  to  the  realm  of  Hades, 
Only  over  the  Earth  hovers  his  gold-dropping  car. 


Didst  thou  notice  just  now  that  rattle  of  sash  at  the  window  ''. 

On  its  hinge  turned  the  door,  yet  at  the  sill  is  no  guest. 
Also  the  pan  on  the  fire  slightly  tipped,  and  in  it  the  water 

Quivered  from  some  hidden  touch  with  rapid  shudders  of  fear. 
List  !  a  low  heavy  rumble  that  rolls  far  away  in  the  distance — 

Then  it  dies  with  a  gasp,  in  a  faint  mutter  of  wrath  j 
Pray,  what  is  it  ?     To  thee  I  shall  tell  the  truth  undistorted, 

Though  I  love  not  to  think  what  I  now  feel  I  must  speak  ; 
But  thou  must  know  what  is  here:     That  was  Seismos.  the  God  of  the 
Earthquake, 

Who  just  turned  on  his  side  in  a  wild  frenzy  of  dream-  ; 
For  he  is  still  here  beneath  us.  and  often  he  gives  us  a  warning 

That  he  feverish  is,  restless  for  deeper  revenge. 
When  he  turns  in  his  bed,  he  rumples  the  earth  like  a  cover: 

.lust  at  ]  i  resent  he  sleeps  under  this  quilt  of  the  gi'ound, 
And  in  his  dream  he  grasps  it  and  wrinkles  it  oft  till  it  tremble  : 

Eigid  Parnas>ian  tops  roll  like  the  waves  of  the  sen. 
And  the  rock-pillared  plane  of  the  earth  at  his  touch  is  as  water: 

Even  its  billows'  low  roar  was  the  dull  sound  thou  hast  heard. 


114  Elpinike. 

Once,  it  is  said,  long  ago  he  in  person  rose  up  from  these  mountains. 

Huge  was  his  visage  of  stone,  wrinkled  with  many  a  rift, 
Alight  v  the  brawn  of  his  arm,  his  legs  had  the  totter  of  hill-tope  : 

o      «/  o 

Bound  him  a  barbarous  blast  swept  from  the  wilds  of  the  Xorth, 
Temples  were  sunk  in  the  earth,  the  Gods  disappeared  in  the  tempest, 

Since  then  our  Delphi  has  been  nought  but  the  film  of  a  dream. 
Even  my  days — said  she — reach  back  to  a  year  when  he  smote  us7 

All  of  us  fled  from  our  homes,  many  wnv  dragged  to  his  cave. 
Since  this  spell  of  his  ire,  he  feverish  sleeps  in  his  chamber, 

Still  again  he  will  rise  for  in  his  heart  he  is  wroth, — 
Wroth  at  our  Delphian  G-od  and  wroth  at  our  Delphian  sunshine. 

Both  he  would  sink  into  night  where  he  has  sway   mid  the  rocks. — • 
Elpinike.  where  is  thy  basket  ? — cease  thy  foreboding, 

Glorious  Apollo  has  come,  peering  just  out  of  the  clouds  5 — 
Wait  till  Seismos  arrive  of  himself,  do  not  bring  him  beforehand; 

Down  to  the  Olives  we  basic,  great  will  the  crop  be  to-day. 

9. 
See  this  rock  that  is  lying  here  in  the  midst  of  the  village; 

Tis  as  large  as  a  house,  rugged  and  sharp  are  its  sides. 
Surly  and  ugly  it  lies,  crouched  down  in  the  street  like  a  watch-dog 

That  will  not  stir  from  his  place  however  much  we  may  coax. 
S<>  we  all  when  we  enter  our  hamlet,  have  to  go  round  it; 

Graze  but  the  edges  of  flint,  see,  you  are  bitten  by  fangs. 
AVhence  the  intruder,  you  ask  ?     Look  upward  to  yon  craggy  summit 

Overhanging  the  town,  thence  you  will  see  it  was  broke; 
For  the  rift  is  still  fresh  at  the  point  where  the  cliff  was  sundered. 


Elpinike  115 

And  this  fragment  would  fit  were  it  but  placed  on  that  break  : 
Now  with  its  mass  of  huge  ruin  it  stops  up  the  entrance  to  Delphi 

For  the  stranger  who  seeks  in  his  long  journey  our  town. 
But  for  us  dwellers  it  is  a  dark  threat  as  well  as  a  hindrance, 

Hinting  of  chaos  and  death  which  were  once  rolled  from  the  steep — 
Hither  hurled  by  a  God,  by  the  dark-minded,  rough-handed  Seismos, 

Down  on  the  hamlet  in  sleep  at  the  still  middle  of  night. 
That  dire  moment,  oh  friend,  I  still  can  distinctly  remember, 

As  my  father  me  clasped  from  the  soft  rugs  where  I  lay 
Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  sweet  slumber  and  cradled  by  beautiful  visions : 

Quickly  he  bore  me  away,  naked  and  bruised  in  limb. 
Up  to  that  time  I  had  lived  an  harmonious  sport  of  existence, 

Xow  my  life  lies  in  twain,  -cleft  by  a  horrible  hour. — 
Thus  Elpinike  was  speaking  as  she  came  out  of  the  Olives, 

And  with  a  shudder  she  brushed  past  the  rough  rock  in  the  path. 
Certain  it  is  that  barbarous  Seismos  was  angry  at  Delphi, 

Seeking  to  whelm  the  whole  town  into  his  rocky  domains  ; 
For  the  broad  earth  there  surged  like  a  wave  or  whirled  like  an  eddy, 

Mountains  quivered  above  smit  by  the  hand  of  the  God; 
To  and  fro  like  a  pendulum  swung  he  lofty  Phloumbouki, 

Crags  he  tore  off  in  his  wrath,  hurling  them  down  on  the  roofs. 
Fifty  people  were  lost  then,  but  the  Greek  maiden  was  rescued, 

Elpinike  was  saved,  dowered  with  beauty  divine ; 
Even  Seismos,  the  brute,  with  rapture  was  seized,  or  with  pity 

At  her  beauteous  distress,  and  let  her  flee  from  his  grasp. 
Xow  I  tremble  with  ten-or  and  love  as  I  think  of  her  danger, 

And  with  a  fervor  more  deep  to  my  embrace  her  1  clasp; 


116  Elpinike. 

Temples  are  buried,  houses  are  crushed,  whole  peoples  have  perished — 
But  the  Greek  maiden  survives,  fair  Elpinike  still  lives ; 

And  when  the  morn  has  touched  her  soft  eye  with  its  finger  of  roses, 
Down  to  the  Olives  she  speeds,  singing  a  hymn  on  her  way ; 

The  glad  stream  of  her  notes  I  wander  along  to  the  well-head, 
Beakers  of  pearls  there  I  dip  out  of  the  fountain  of  song. 

10. 
Many  the  deeds  of  wickedness  that  are  recorded  of  Seismos ; 

But  the  one  which  is  worst  I  shall  relate  to  thee  now — 
He  tried  to  ravish  Castalia.     Under  her  fountain 

The  fast  earth  he  quaked,  sought  to  break  up  to  her  bed, 
And  to  bear  her  away  as  once  Proserpine  from  Enna 

Was  borne  off  by  a  God  to  the  Tartarean  realm. 
But  our  good  mother  Earth  was  firm  and  refused  him  a  passage, 

Nor  to  his  blows  did  she  yield  though  she  was  sorel}'  assailed. 
Then  he  filled  the  fair  lap  of  the  Nymph  with  stones  from  the  moun 
tain, 

Hurled  from  the  summit  above  till  she  was  lost  to  the  sight, 
Clasped  in  the  rugged  embraces  of  Seismos,  of  rock-hearted  Seismos  : 

Still  her  low  wail  we  heard  and  her  clear  tears  bubbled  out, 
So  that  we  knew  where  she  was,  revealed  by  the  sigh  of  her  waters, 

And  we  rescued  her  thence  when  the  old  brute  fell  asleep. 
Still  she  is  fair  as  she  rests  in  her  bed  though  bruised  by  the  Titan, 

And  a  low  music  she  makes  with  her  transparent  sweet  song, 
When  on  the  pebbles  she  dances  away  down  into  the  valley 

Where  the  Olives  are  seen — thither  she  hies  with  her  stream. 


Elpinike.  117 

11. 
Yet  I  am  pained  when  I  think  how  many  a  beautiful  maiden 

In  that  convulsion  was  lost — lost  to  us  all  evermore. 
Oh  the  fair  forms  that  lie  in  the  cold  embraces  of  Seismos, 

That  would  ravish  the  eye  as  they  proceed  to  the  dance, 
Festively  dressed  in  white  linen  robes  of  gracefullest  flexure, 

Moving  in  concord  their  limbs  to  the  soft  waving  of  sounds, 
Fragrantly  breathed  on  by  Muses  from  near  Parnassian  summits — 

One  harmonious  voice  they  would  become  in  the  soul. 
Little  use  can  it  be  to  seek  for  them  since  the  dark  giant 

Has  devoured  their  forms  or  has  them  bitten  to  shreds. 
Even  those  whom  after  long  labor  we  rescued,  were  mangled 

By  his  rude  hand  of  rock  till  but  a  fragment  they  lay. 
But  they  are  gone  from  our  view,  buried  deep  in  the  caverns  of  Seismos, 

Lost  to  Apollo's  abode,  temple  of  beauty  and  light. 
Who  would  not  weep  for  them  ? — Hold  thy  kindred  tears,  Elpinike ; 

Thou  dost  remain  on  our  Earth,  still  too  the  Olives  remain ; 
Thy  bright  eyes  now  reflect  all  that  ever  was  lost  in  fair  Hellas, 

In  thee  1  see  all  its  maids,  Helen  herselt  I  behold. 
One  is  enough,  I  tell  thee,  one  is  far  better  than  many — 

If  only  thee  I  can  win,  then  I  have  won  in  thee  all. 


118  Elpinike. 


CYCLET  FOUKTH. 
1. 

Calmly  has  Phoebus  laid  down  his  bright  shield  'gainst  the  top  of  the 
mountain, 

As  in  the  West  he  descends,  clad  in  his  armor  of  gold ; 
Now  he  commences  to  cast  off  his  mail  for  a  plunge  in  the  ocean, 

Like  a  warrior  on  high,  weary  with  spoils  of  the  day ; 
Kadiant  Delphi  he  leaves  for  a  time  and  bright  Elpinike, 

While  the  afternoon  sheen  slowly  is  swooning  to  eve. 
Hark  !  there  rises  a  sullen  low  moan  from  the  tops  of  the  Olives  : 

People  are  beating  the  fruit  down  with  a  pitiless  rod. 
So  the  hapless  young  trees  mubt  surrender  the  stores  of  their  branches, 

Scourged  by  the  hand  of  harsh  fate,  stript  of  their  glory  and  pride. 
Many  a  leat  in  a  slow,  sad  whirl  to  the  ground  now  is  falling, 

Quits  unwilling  the  twig  where  it  could  sport  all  day. 
Many  a  branch,  too,  full  of  fresh  juices  and  tender,  is  broken 

By  the  rude  blows  that  fall  on  the  bright  head  of  the  tree. 
Even  the  limbs  are  lopped  by  the  knife  and  are  borne  to  the  village, 

AVhere  in  the  hearth  they  are  cast,  quickly  to  ashes  are  burnt. 
So  there  remains  of  the  merry  new  dance  that  took  place  in  the  tree- 
tops, 

Nought  but  the  dust  of  the  pyre  that  in  the  chimney  is  left. 


Elpinike.  119 

As  I  walk  through  the  trees  of  the  orchard,  a  tear  will  keep  dropping 

When  I  think  of  the  fate  which  my  young  Olives  has  smit. 
Nor  can  I  tell  what  there  is  in  the  air  of  to-day  that  affects  me ; 

Always  I  melt  at  some  view,  joining  fair  youth  to  decay. 
What  are  these  fragnents  of  stone  ?     Sarcophagus,  broken  to  pieces, 

Which  I  stumble  against  as  they  lie  strown  in  my  path. 
Here  mid  the  fallen  green  branches  and  leaves  is  the  hollow  stone 
casket 

Where  a  young  body  once  lay,  torn  from  its  parents'  fond  arms ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  the  Olives,  under  the  sport  of  the  leaflets, 

Urns  were  once  placed  in  the  rock,  holding  sweet  youth  and  its  love. 
But  the  stone  still  remains,  though  long  since  has  perished  the  treasure, 

Fate  refuses  return  by  an  unchanging  decree ; 
Nor  is  Nature,  methinks,  to  her  children  wholly  impartial, 

Some  she  recalls  to  her  breast,  others  forever  she  spurns. 
Seasons  depart  and  return  with  delight  to  the  Delphian  hill-side, 

Disappear  for  a  time  but  are  restored  with  new  birth; 
High  Parnassus,  propped  on  its  pillars,  knows  no  mutation, 

Though  for  the  summer  it  change  merely  its  vestment  of  snow ; 
Evergreen  are  the  pines  that  slope  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain, 

While  the  leaf  of  the  bush  hints,  when  it  falls,  the  new  bud ; 
Still  too  Castalia  is  here — the  perennial  musical  runnel, 

Singing  the  same  happy  strain  heard  by  the  poets  of  old ; 
But,  ah  youth,  the  fairest,  supremest  blossom  of  Nature 

Passes  away  at  its  bloom  by  irreversible  law ; 
Man,  the  top  of  creation  decays,  and  soon  drops  into  ashes — 

Flung  by  time  on  the  earth  as  a  mere  handful  of  dust. 


120  Elpinfte. 

"What  is  fairest  must  die,  its  place  is  soon  filled  by  another. 

"While  there  endures  the  rude  rock  ages  on  ages  the  same. 
Thus  have  perished  the  youths  and  thus  have  perished  the  Olives, 

But  not  thus  shall  I  die,  if  my  behest  be  obeyed  ; 
For  a  testament  have  I  bequeathed  with  the  single  provision  : 

Plant  a  young  Olive  or  two  over  my  grave  by  the  rill ; 
Then  I  cannot  but  think  I  shall  wake  to  the  joy  of  the  leaflets, 

As  I  lie  in  repose  under  my  blanket  of  earth  ; 
Or  if  I  sleep,  I  shall  dream  once  more  the  sweet  dreams  of  my  lifetime, 

"When  I  roamed  through  the  trees,  sporting  with  image  and  song. 
But  the  Olive  there  planted,  I  know,  will  rejoice  to  spread  o'er  me, 

Through  the  soil  it  will  send  rootlets  to  wreathe  me  in  love ; 
With  the  sap  I  shall  rise,  and  the  tree  I  shall  render  immortal. 

For  my  deathless  soul  shall  I  imbreathe  in  the  leaves ; 
There  they  forever  will  sport  in  the  golden  network  of  sunbeams, 

Just  as  I  saw  them  of  old  as  I  lay  down  by  the  stream. 


True  it  is,  Elpinike,  of  me,  thou  faithful  observer — 

What  thou  hast  said  with  a  laugh,  I  must  confess  with  a  sigh  : 
Silvery  hairs  have  begun  to  intrude  on  the  slant  of  my  temples, 

With  their  dark  comrades  they  stay  winding  in  subtle  embrace  j 
Nor  can  they  be  any  longer  expelled  by  the  hand  of  rude  power, 

For  their  sum  is  too  great,  so  they  defiant  remain. 
Many  a  wrinkle  has  furrowed  deeply  the  field  of  my  forehead, 

Running  aslant  and  across — marks  by  my  life  branded  there  ;    . 
Many  a  channel  spreads  out  like  a  fan  from  the  lake  of  my  eyelids, 


.Elpinike.  121 

Passages  cut  through  my  cheeks  by  the  fierce  tempest  and  flood; 
Often,  I  tell  thee,  have  they  been  filled  with  hot  torrents  of  sorrow- 
When  the  dark  cloud  of  fate  burst  o'er  my  head  in  the  air. 
Never  again  will  these  channels  be  smoothed  from  my  visage,  oh  never! 

Like  the  fair  rose  of  youth  which  I  behold  in  thy  face ; 
"\Vorn  too  deep  in  the  storm  the}'  have  been  to  be  now  leveled  over, 

Traces  will  ahvaj's  remain  where  the  wild  current  once  swept. 
Still,  Elpinike,  like  thee  I  shall  bloom  in  spite  of  my  body, 

Kichcr  shall  be,  too,the  yield  from  the  deep  furrows  of  life, 
Golden  forever  the  stream  shall  flow  through  the  tear-riven  channel, 

E'en  from  the  wounds  of  the  tree  buds  shall  burst  forth  to  the  sun. 
For  the  glow  of  thy  youth  I  shall  hand  thee  sweet  draughts  of  my  fancy, 

And  for  the  flash  of  thine  eyes  shall  I  throw  sparkles  of  words  j 
"\Vith  the  red  morn  in  th}' cheek  shall  I  mingle  the  gold  of  my  evening, 

And  with  thy  youthful  embrace  now  I  shall  match  a  young  dream. 
For  my  soul's  latest  garland  exchange  thy  body's  swo.et  poem, — 

I  too  fresh  flowers  shall  wreathe  while  there  is  life  in  this  frame. 
Know  that  age  is  transformed  into  youth  by  Love  and  the  Pluses, 

And  though  Time  crisp  the  flesh.  Poesy  blossoms  eterne. 
Look  at  this  aged  Olive  ,beneath  which  now  we  are  sitting. 

Centuries  long  have  sought  vainly  to  blast  its  young  life. 
Twisted  and  knotted  and  bent  in  all  ways  by  the  winds  and  the  tempests, 

E'en  full  of  holes  is  tin-  stock,  and  it  is  hollow  within. 
Here  it  was  cruelly  struck  by  an  axe  in  the  hands  of  a  peasant, 

There  a  branch  it  once  lost,  dearer,  methinks,  than  itself; 
Xay,  it  has  once  been  rifted  in  twain  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 

In  some  violent  storm  sent  from  above  by  the  Gods. 


122  Elpinike. 

Still  it  is  giving  forth  branches  and  shoots  from  its  body  so  shattered, 

E'en  on  its  scars  you  may  see  sprouts  leaping  out  of  the  bark, 
And  it  buries  its  wounds  in  an  overgrowth  smooth  of  new  tissue, 

Still  their  place  can  be  told  by  the  fresh  rind  and  the  buds. 
Youthful  its  head  of  silver-green  leaves  rises  up  in  the  orchard, 

No  one  would  think  of  its  age,  were  the  old  trunk  not  beheld. 
Every  branch  too  is  laden  above  with  a  rich  crop  of  Olives  : 

Far  more  it  bears  of  the  fruit  than  the  young  tree  in  the  soil ; 
For  out  of  each  ancient  fibre  of  wood  shoots  upward  a  sapling, 

Till  around  the  ho'ar  stem  dances  a  cluster  of  youths 
With  the  thousandfold  laugh  of  the  leaves  and  the  limbs  on  the  hill-side  : 

'Tis  a  hymn,  you  would  say,  sung  by  Parnassian  choirs. 
Tree  of  the  JVtuses,  thyself  into  youth  eternally  changing, 

Even  thy  age  is  the  soil  in  which  is  nourished  thy  bloom, 
And  the  older  thou  growest,  and  the  more  wrinkled  thy  body, 

The  more  sprouts  seem  to  spring  from  the  rich  fibre  of  years. 
Such  may  I  be — age  into  youth  forever  transforming, 

Till  the  old  trunk  when  it  falls  shall  be  borne  off  to  the  pyre. 

3. 
Not  every  day  does  Apollo  smile  on  the  hill-side  of  Delphi, 

But  he  covers  his  face  in  the  dark  folds  of  the  clouds ; 
For  he  has  two  garments — the  white  one  of  youth  and  of  radiance, 

And  another  one  grained  in  the  deep  colors  of  night. 
From  the  second  he  shakes  out  the  showers  and  sprinkles  the  Olives : 

Then  I  am  driven  to  roof,  while  Elpinike  remains 
Out  in  the  storm  at  her  work,  and  sings  to  the  fall  of  the  raindrops 


Elpinike.  123 

Melodies  sweet  of  her  soul,  though  all  the  Olives  be  wet. 
There  in  the  cabin  I  couch  on  a  rug  alongside  of  the  fireplace, 

Look  at  the  blaze  and  think — think  of  the  maid  in  the  rain. 
But  as  I  sit  there  alone,  Apollo  rises  within  me, 

Bright  is  the  form  of  the  God,  mildly  serene  is  his  glance, 
Proud  is  the  lip  though  and  high  is  the  tread  of  the  slaj^er  of  Python, 

And  from  his  body  divine  sparkles  ambrosial  youth. 
Of  a  sudden  each  hidden  dark  chamber  within  me  is  lighted, 

And  a  new  sunrise  I  have  all  to  myself  in  the  hut. 
Thus  he  to  me  familiarly  talks  in  tones  of  fair  promise  : 

"  Though  unseen  by  thine  eye,  do  not  suppose  I  am  lost; 
For  I  oft  leave  the  sky  to  rise  in  the  hearts  of  my  people, 

Often  I  change  my  abode  here  from  without  to  within. 
He  knoweth  not  my  true  worship  who  can  not  cany  my  sunshine 

Through  the  time  of  dark  days  that  I  insert  in  the  bright; 
For  the  world  I  have  built  out  of  layers  of  clouds  and  of  sunlight, 

Although  man  I  have  made  only  of  beams,  if  he  will. 
Often  the  heavens  must  darken  and  tempests  will  bury  my  visage, 

But  my  boon  thou  hast  not  till  thou  art  Phoebus  thyself. 
Look  now  under  the  Olives,  thine  own  Elpinike  is  busy 

In  the  fierce  rain,  still  she  sings — sings  in  the  storm  of  her  love. 
She  my  true  worshipper  is,  for  she  bears  my  face  in  her  bosom, 

So  that  wherever  she  stays,  there  I  am  shining  all  day. 


124  Elpinike. 

4. 

The  last  evening  it  was  that  I  saw  Elpinikc  at  Delphi : 

Softly  her  words  in  mine  ear  throbbed  the  low  strain  of  a  hymn 
After  I  had  come  home  and  laid  down  on  my  rugs  al  the  hearthstone: 

There  I  lay  down  by  myself,  filled  with  her  musical  speech. 
Always  my  thoughts  were  lingering  over  her  tones  and  her  glances, 

Till  by  degrees  I  had  strayed  into  the  realm  of  the  dream; 
Then  each  wandering  fancy  was  buoyed  with  the  wish  of  my  waking,. 

And  each  hope  of  my  heart  turned  at  its  birth  to  be  true; 
Every  image  in  sleep  was  full  of  the  glimpses  of  daytime, 

And  what  I  thought  of  awake  changed  to  a  vision  by  night. 
For  I  dreamed  I  had  borne  far  away  divine  Elpinike, 

Out  of  her  bright  Greek  home  over  the  breadth  of  the  sea; 
So  infatuate  had  I  become  to  possess  ot  her  beauty 

That  the  Delphian  rocks  could  I  without  her  not  leave. 
Then  I  led  the  Parnassian  queen  along  in  my  journey, 

Joyous  we  turned  from  the  Dawn  glimmering  iaint  on  the  heights. 
Toward  the  Evening  we  fled  on  the  fire-winged  chariot  of  Hesper, 

Where  are  the  garden  and  trees  hanging  with  apples  of  gold, 
Which  long  ago  were  by  Poets  beheld  from  the  top  of  Parnassus, 

Like  an  island  of  dreams  floating  Olympian  fruits, 
As  it  lay  far  off  in  the  West  mid  the  sheen  of  Apollo  : 

Now  the  presage  is  true  and  Elpinikc  has  come. 
There  in  my  land  by  the  sunset  I  built  her  a  home,  a  new  temple, 

That  she  might  have  an  abode  fit  for  a  Goddess  of  old ; 
And  I  built  it  of  whitest  and  purest  of  far-glancing  marble, 


Elpinike.  125 

Bound  it  I  drew  a  bright  frieze  leaping  with  forms  of  the  feast, 
While  the  roof  was  supported  by  many  a  glistening  column  ; 

.Many  a  sculpture  I  placed  in  the  fair  hall  of  the  fane. 
In  the  beams  of  the  sun  how  merry  the  dance  of  the  marbles ! 

The  whole  temple  did  dance  as  with  new  lustre  it  rose. 
There  it  stood  on  the  banks  that  hold  the  great  Father  of  Waters, 

Monster  huge  of  the  West — tawny  the  flow  of  his  mane — 
Ever  leaping  along  down  his  deep-delved  path  to  the  sea-caves 

Whore  he  cloth  rest  from  his  race  mid  his  sleek  dolphins  and  calves. 
Smeared  is  his  face  with  the  clay  of  each  land  that  he  laves  in  his  passage, 

Cloudy  with  turmoil  his  brow  as  he  defiantly  rolls. 
Rearing  his  head  from  the  stream,  he  shakes  his  muddy  old  chaplet, 

In  some  anger  he  seems  ever  to  hurry  along. 
Hitherto  he  is  said  to  have  been  the  terror  of  Muses, 

And  they  have  fled  from  his  banks,  shrieking  in  fear  or  disgust. 
Still  there  boldly  1  built  a  Greek  fane  to  mine  own  Elpinike, 

And  I  installed  her  within,  that  of  my  house  she  be  queen. 
Joyous  and  faithful  she  sped  with  me  over  the  continents  mighty, 

Over  the  ocean  she  passed,  neither  she  flinched  nor  she  tired ; 
Soon  a  new  Hellas  she  found,  and  a  new  Parnassian  garden 

Filled  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers  grown  in  Apollo's  domain. 
There  she  was  happy--and  in  her  new  home  by  the  side  of  the  Eiver 

Always  her  glances  serene  tokened  her  loveliest  mood ; 
Eobed  too  she  was  in  the  folds ;  when  she  moved  through  the  mansion 
of  marble, 

Graces  followed  her  train,  strewing  their  wealth  as  she  passed ; 
And  on  the  shore  where  raged  that  turbulent  God  of  the  Eiver 


126  Elpinike. 

Then  she  attuned  the  sweet  hymn,  calming  the  wrath  of  the  wave ; 
Filled  was  her  strain  of  delight  with  the  ancient  Delphian  measures, 

That  Castalia  had  throbbed  from  her  clear  source  long  ago, 
As  she  went  dancing  adown  the  green  hill  through  the  orchard  and 
vineyard, 

Winding  in  choruses  bright,  garlands  of  maidens  and  youths. 
There  Elpinike,  with  glances  all  golden,  illumed  her  new  temple, 

And  with  the  voice  of  the  Muse  often  she  sang  as  of  old. 


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